One of Reardon’s minor worries at this time was the fear that by chance
he might come upon a review of ‘Margaret Home.’ Since the publication of
his first book he had avoided as far as possible all knowledge of what
the critics had to say about him; his nervous temperament could not bear
the agitation of reading these remarks, which, however inept, define
an author and his work to so many people incapable of judging for
themselves. No man or woman could tell him anything in the way of praise
or blame which he did not already know quite well; commendation was
pleasant, but it so often aimed amiss, and censure was for the most part
so unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel he dreaded the
sight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty knife.
The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their expression in
journalistic phrase would disturb his mind with evil rancour. No one
would have insight enough to appreciate the nature and cause of his
book’s demerits; every comment would be wide of the mark; sneer,
ridicule, trite objection, would but madden him with a sense of
injustice.
His position was illogical--one result of the moral weakness which was
allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside the worthlessness
of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated book has of course
nothing to do with its author’s state of mind and body any more than
with the condition of his purse. Reardon would have granted this, but he
could not command his emotions. He was in passionate revolt against
the base necessities which compelled him to put forth work in no way
representing his healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had
written this book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the author
was, in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap a
notice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made his blood
boil with a fierceness of hatred only possible to him in a profoundly
morbid condition; he could not steady his hand for half an hour after.
Yet this particular critic only said what was quite true--that the novel
contained not a single striking scene and not one living character;
Reardon had expressed himself about it in almost identical terms. But
he saw himself in the position of one sickly and all but destitute man
against a relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeared
dastardly. He could have cried ‘Coward!’ to the writer who wounded him.
The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood’s hands had
perhaps more merit than ‘Margaret Home’; its brevity, and the fact that
nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events, made it
not unreadable. But Reardon thought of it with humiliation. If it
were published as his next work it would afford final proof to such
sympathetic readers as he might still retain that he had hopelessly
written himself out, and was now endeavouring to adapt himself to an
inferior public. In spite of his dire necessities he now and then hoped
that Jedwood might refuse the thing.
At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four months
he was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses were the mere
outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in himself under
present conditions; the permanence of his sufferings would mean the sure
destruction of powers he still possessed, though they were not at
his command. Yet he believed that his mind was made up as to the
advisability of trying this last resource; he was impatient for the day
of departure, and in the interval merely killed time as best he might.
He could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his next
book; the delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for
the barrenness of day after day. His ‘Pliny’ article had been despatched
to The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble
himself about this or other details; it was as though his mind could do
nothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution; with the
steps towards that final stage he seemed to have little concern.
One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom he had
not seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copy
of ‘Margaret Home’ left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffen resided
in Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim district
which lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking
at the door of the lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at
home. He ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed
rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound of
voices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffen was
engaged with a pupil.
‘They didn’t tell me you had a visitor,’ he said. ‘I’ll call again
later.’
‘No need to go away,’ replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands.
‘Take a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won’t mind.’
It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodger
could only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three inches
intervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy,
cobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in front of the fireplace;
elsewhere the chinky boards were unconcealed. The furniture consisted of
a round table, which kept such imperfect balance on its central support
that the lamp entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of three
small cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rude
appurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at the hour
of repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at present kept
in a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few hundred battered volumes
were arranged some on the floor and some on a rough chest. The weather
was too characteristic of an English spring to make an empty grate
agreeable to the eye, but Biffen held it an axiom that fires were
unseasonable after the first of May.
The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in the
attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired young
man of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from his weather-beaten cheeks
and huge hands, as well as from the garb he wore, one would have
presumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was something
of the riverside about him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman.
He looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty.
‘Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences,’ said Biffen, who sat
down by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume.
‘This isn’t bad--it isn’t bad at all, I assure you; but you have put all
you had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to have
made about a dozen.’
‘There it is, sir; there it is!’ exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiry
hair. ‘I can’t break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if I may say
so. To break it up--there’s the art of compersition.’
Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffen,
whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with an
explanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling.
‘Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs
Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, you
know, that isn’t quite such a simple matter as some people think.’
Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile.
‘I can make headway with the other things, sir,’ he said, striking the
table lightly with his clenched fist. ‘There’s handwriting, there’s
orthography, there’s arithmetic; I’m not afraid of one of ‘em, as Mr
Biffen’ll tell you, sir. But when it comes to compersition, that brings
out the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you.
‘You’re not the only man in that case, Mr Baker,’ replied Reardon.
‘It’s thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?’
‘It is indeed.’
‘Two hundred marks for compersition,’ continued the man. ‘Now how many
would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?’
‘Well, well; I can’t exactly say. But you improve; you improve,
decidedly. Peg away for another week or two.’
‘Oh, don’t fear me, sir! I’m not easily beaten when I’ve set my mind on
a thing, and I’ll break up the compersition yet, see if I don’t!’
Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of
the steam-hammer cracking a nut.
The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under pretence of
reading, following it with as much amusement as anything could excite
in him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood up, collected his papers and
books, and seemed about to depart; but, after certain uneasy movements
and glances, he said to Biffen in a subdued voice:
‘Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?’
He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds
of muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy footstep descended
the stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.
‘Now that’s a good, honest fellow,’ he said, in an amused tone. ‘It’s
my pay-night, but he didn’t like to fork out money before you. A very
unusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays me sixpence for an
hour’s lesson; that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel a
little ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he’s a good deal
better off than I am.’
‘Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?’
‘Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told him
so before this. To be sure, that’s a point I have often to consider,
and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of my
pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago and
wanted Latin lessons; talked about going in for the London Matric., on
his way to the pulpit. I couldn’t stand it. After a lesson or two I told
him his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he got
into better health; that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had
no chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me.
Oh yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow.
You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn’t make any
difference to him that I live in a garret like this; I’m a man of
education, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings.’
‘Biffen, why don’t you get some decent position? Surely you might.’
‘What position? No school would take me; I have neither credentials
nor conventional clothing. For the same reason I couldn’t get a private
tutorship in a rich family. No, no; it’s all right. I keep myself alive,
and I get on with my work.--By-the-bye, I’ve decided to write a book
called “Mr Bailey, Grocer.”’
‘What’s the idea?’
‘An objectionable word, that. Better say: “What’s the reality?” Well, Mr
Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with him
for a long time, and as he’s a talkative fellow I’ve come to know a good
deal about him and his history. He’s fond of talking about the struggle
he had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, but
he married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat’s-meat
business. You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature;
at the time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old.
Now I’m going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey’s marriage and of his
progress as a grocer. It’ll be a great book--a great book!’
He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception.
‘There’ll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignoble--as
I’ve so often said. The thing’ll take me a year at least. I shall do
it slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the length of the ordinary
French novel. There’s something fine in the title, don’t you think? “Mr
Bailey, Grocer”!’
‘I envy you, old fellow,’ said Reardon, sighing. ‘You have the right
fire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I have
decided to do?’
‘I should like to hear.’
Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely,
seated across a chair with his arms on the back.
‘Your wife is in agreement with this?’
‘Oh yes.’ He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it.
‘She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need.’
‘I should say so too--if you were going to rest. But if you have to set
to work at once it seems to me very doubtful.’
‘Never mind. For Heaven’s sake don’t discourage me! If this fails I
think--upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself.’
‘Pooh!’ exclaimed Biffen, gently. ‘With a wife like yours?’
‘Just because of that.’
‘No, no; there’ll be some way out of it. By-the-bye, I passed Mrs
Reardon this morning, but she didn’t see me. It was in Tottenham Court
Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance to
stop and speak.’
‘In Tottenham Court Road?’
That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon’s
attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind
involuntarily played this trick.
‘I only saw them just as they were passing,’ pursued Biffen. ‘Oh, I knew
I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to
be married?’
Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.
‘I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him
up to-night, and he’d let me know all about it. Let’s go together, shall
we?’
‘I don’t feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I’ll walk with you, and
go on home.’
‘No, no; come and see him. It’ll do you good to talk a little.--But I
must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I’m afraid you won’t care
to join?’
He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of
dripping, with salt and pepper.
‘Better dripping this than I’ve had for a long time. I get it at Mr
Bailey’s--that isn’t his real name, of course. He assures me it comes
from a large hotel where his wife’s sister is a kitchen-maid, and that
it’s perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and
perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn’t care
to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and
dripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.’
‘I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?’
‘I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland
Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they have
there, too. I’ll give you a supper of them some night before you go.’
Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.
He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the
fare seem more substantial.
‘Is it very cold out?’ he asked, rising from the table. ‘Need I put my
overcoat on?’
This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a
door-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the
realist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth called
diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the
other articles of his attire.
Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it
and drew it on with a caution which probably had reference to
starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his
tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic
line which had come into his head a propos of nothing obvious.
‘Go out,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second
step down, as usual.’
They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed Euston
Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior,
Mr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requested
them to walk up to the topmost storey.
A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they
knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than that
inhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of furniture needed
to give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were in
good condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain;
scrutiny would have discovered behind the draping the essential
equipments of a bedchamber.
Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-featured
but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnut
hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a
dressing-gown and was without collar.
‘Welcome, gents both!’ he cried facetiously. ‘Ages since I saw you,
Reardon. I’ve been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in it
here and there--uncommonly good.’
Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable
truth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon rather
uncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need whatever of his
mentioning ‘Margaret Home,’ he preferred to frame smooth fictions rather
than keep a silence which might be construed as unfavourable criticism.
‘In the last volume,’ he went on, ‘I think there are one or two things
as good as you ever did; I do indeed.’
Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated him, for
he knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his friend’s silence,
struck in on another subject.
‘Who is this lady of whom you write to me?’
‘Ah, quite a story! I’m going to be married, Reardon. A serious
marriage. Light your pipes, and I’ll tell you all about it. Startled
you, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it a
rash step, I dare say. We shall just take another room in this house,
that’s all. I think I can count upon an income of a couple of guineas
a week, and I have plans without end that are pretty sure to bring in
coin.’
Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited with
grave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard of a poor
man’s persuading a woman to share his poverty he was eager of details;
perchance he himself might yet have that heavenly good fortune.
‘Well,’ began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath he had
just puffed from the cigar, ‘you know all about my literary advisership.
The business goes on reasonably well. I’m going to extend it in ways
I’ll explain to you presently. About six weeks ago I received a letter
from a lady who referred to my advertisements, and said she had the
manuscript of a novel which she would like to offer for my opinion. Two
publishers had refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she
hoped it mightn’t be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape.
Of course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me.
Well, it wasn’t actually bad--by Jove! you should have seen some of
the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It wasn’t
hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to it. After
exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come and see me,
that we might save postage stamps and talk things over. She hadn’t
given me her address: I had to direct to a stationer’s in Bayswater. She
agreed to come, and did come. I had formed a sort of idea, but of course
I was quite wrong. Imagine my excitement when there came in a
very beautiful girl, a tremendously interesting girl, about
one-and-twenty--just the kind of girl that most strongly appeals to
me; dark, pale, rather consumptive-looking, slender--no, there’s no
describing her; there really isn’t! You must wait till you see her.’
‘I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,’ remarked Biffen in
his grave way.
‘Oh, there’s nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough, poor
girl.’
‘The deuce!’ interjected Reardon.
‘Oh, nothing, nothing! It’ll be all right. Well, now, of course we
talked over the story--in good earnest, you know. Little by little I
induced her to speak of herself--this, after she’d come two or three
times--and she told me lamentable things. She was absolutely alone in
London, and hadn’t had sufficient food for weeks; had sold all she could
of her clothing; and so on. Her home was in Birmingham; she had been
driven away by the brutality of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few
pounds, and she came to London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know,
this kind of thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl,
let alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she
began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her, that she
wouldn’t be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myself
no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I didn’t practise any
deception, mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as a
realistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways; and I
explained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds of
business together: she might go on with her novel-writing, and--so on.
But she was frightened; I had been too abrupt. That’s a fault of mine,
you know; but I was so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told her
as much, plainly.’
Biffen smiled.
‘This would be exciting,’ he said, ‘if we didn’t know the end of the
story.’
‘Yes. Pity I didn’t keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn’t say yes, but
I could see that she didn’t absolutely say no. “In any case,” I said,
“you’ll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I’ll work day and night
for you. I’ll do my utmost to get your novel accepted.” And I implored
her to let me lend her a little money. It was very difficult to persuade
her, but at last she accepted a few shillings. I could see in her face
that she was hungry. Just imagine! A beautiful girl absolutely hungry;
it drove me frantic!
But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other almost
every day, and at last--she consented! Did indeed! I can hardly believe
it yet. We shall be married in a fortnight’s time.’
‘I congratulate you,’ said Reardon.
‘So do I,’ sighed Biffen.
‘The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her father and
tell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it was as well; the old
fellow isn’t badly off; and he may forgive her for running away, though
he’s under his wife’s thumb, it appears. I had a note yesterday. She had
gone to a friend’s house for the first day. I hoped to have heard again
this morning--must to-morrow, in any case. I live, as you may imagine,
in wild excitement. Of course, if the old man stumps up a wedding
present, all the better. But I don’t care; we’ll make a living somehow.
What do you think I’m writing just now? An author’s Guide. You know the
kind of thing; they sell splendidly. Of course I shall make it a good
advertisement of my business. Then I have a splendid idea. I’m going to
advertise: “Novel-writing taught in ten lessons!” What do you think
of that? No swindle; not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving the
ordinary man or woman ten very useful lessons. I’ve been working out the
scheme; it would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals with
the question of subjects, local colour--that kind of thing. I gravely
advise people, if they possibly can, to write of the wealthy middle
class; that’s the popular subject, you know. Lords and ladies are all
very well, but the real thing to take is a story about people who have
no titles, but live in good Philistine style. I urge study of horsey
matters especially; that’s very important. You must be well up, too,
in military grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an
important topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I
shall teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons to
girls; they’ll prefer coming to a woman, you know.’
Biffen leant back and laughed noisily.
‘How much shall you charge for the course?’ asked Reardon.
‘That’ll depend. I shan’t refuse a guinea or two; but some people may be
made to pay five, perhaps.’
Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said:
‘A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.’
He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated.
‘Yes, it’s from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an exquisite
hand she writes!’
He tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen averted their
eyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange ejaculation from
Whelpdale caused his friends to look up at him. He had gone pale, and
was frowning at the sheet of paper which trembled in his hand.
‘No bad news, I hope?’ Biffen ventured to say.
Whelpdale let himself sink into a chair.
‘Now if this isn’t too bad!’ he exclaimed in a thick voice. ‘If
this isn’t monstrously unkind! I never heard anything so gross as
this--never!’
The two waited, trying not to smile.
‘She writes--that she has met an old lover--in Birmingham--that it was
with him she had quarrelled-not with her father at all--that she ran
away to annoy him and frighten him--that she has made it up again, and
they’re going to be married!’
He let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woebegone that his friends
at once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as the case
admitted of. Reardon thought better of Whelpdale for this emotion; he
had not believed him capable of it.
‘It isn’t a case of vulgar cheating!’ cried the forsaken one presently.
‘Don’t go away thinking that. She writes in real distress and
penitence--she does indeed. Oh, the devil! Why did I let her go to
Birmingham? A fortnight more, and I should have had her safe. But it’s
just like my luck. Do you know that this is the third time I’ve been
engaged to be married?--no, by Jove, the fourth! And every time the girl
has got out of it at the last moment. What an unlucky beast I am! A girl
who was positively my ideal! I haven’t even a photograph of her to show
you; but you’d be astonished at her face. Why, in the devil’s name, did
I let her go to Birmingham?’
The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as if
Whelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears.
‘We had better leave you,’ suggested Biffen. ‘It’s very hard--it is
indeed.’
‘Look here! Read the letter for yourselves! Do!’
They declined, and begged him not to insist.
‘But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn’t a case of
farcical deceiving--not a bit of it! She implores me to forgive her, and
blames herself no end. Just my luck! The third--no, the fourth time, by
Jove! Never was such an unlucky fellow with women. It’s because I’m so
damnably poor; that’s it, of course!’
Reardon and his companion succeeded at length in getting away, though
not till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the vanished girl
described again and again in much detail. Both were in a state of
depression as they left the house.
‘What think you of this story?’ asked Biffen. ‘Is this possible in a
woman of any merit?’
‘Anything is possible in a woman,’ Reardon replied, harshly.
They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There, with an
assurance that he would come to a garret-supper before leaving London,
Reardon parted from his friend and turned westward.
As soon as he had entered, Amy’s voice called to him:
‘Here’s a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!’
He stepped into the study.
‘It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do to
resist the temptation to open it.’
‘Why shouldn’t you have opened it?’ said her husband, carelessly.
He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at first.
Succeeding at length, he found a letter in the publisher’s own writing,
and the first word that caught his attention was ‘regret.’ With an angry
effort to command himself he ran through the communication, then held it
out to Amy.
She read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that the story
offered to him did not seem likely to please that particular public to
whom his series of one-volume novels made appeal. He hoped it would
be understood that, in declining, he by no means expressed an adverse
judgment on the story itself &c.
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ said Reardon. ‘I believe he is quite right.
The thing is too empty to please the better kind of readers, yet not
vulgar enough to please the worse.’
‘But you’ll try someone else?’
‘I don’t think it’s much use.’
They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood’s letter slipped
from Amy’s lap to the ground.
‘So,’ said Reardon, presently, ‘I don’t see how our plan is to be
carried out.’
‘Oh, it must be!’
‘But how?’
‘You’ll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And--hadn’t we
better sell the furniture, instead of--’
His look checked her.
‘It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from me, on
whatever terms.’
‘Don’t begin that over again!’ she exclaimed, fretfully. ‘If you don’t
believe what I say--’
They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their voices
quivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness.
‘If we sell the furniture,’ pursued Reardon, ‘that means you’ll never
come back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child from the hard
life that seems to be before us.’
‘Yes, I do; but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work for us
all, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how wretched this
is!’
She burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of attempting to
soothe her, went into the next room, where he sat for a long time in
the dark. When he returned Amy was calm again; her face expressed a cold
misery.
‘Where did you go this morning?’ he asked, as if wishing to talk of
common things.
‘I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie.’
‘Oh yes.’
There was a silence.
‘Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road,’ he added.
‘I didn’t see him.’
‘No; he said you didn’t.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Amy, ‘it was just when I was speaking to Mr Milvain.’
‘You met Milvain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. I can’t mention every trifle that happens.’
‘No, of course not.’
Amy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two Reardon
observed her countenance.
‘So you think we had better sell the furniture.’
‘I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to you,
Edwin.’
‘Are you going to see your mother to-morrow?’
‘Yes. I thought you would like to come too.’
‘No; there’s no good in my going.’
He again rose, and that night they talked no more of their difficulties,
though on the morrow (Sunday) it would be necessary to decide their
course in every detail.