New Grub Street [122]
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