 CHAPTER 25 A FRUITLESS MEETING Weird and tried to answer indifferently, but it could be seen that he was agitated between hopes and fears. You'll ask her at all events. Oh, yes, was the half-absent reply. But surely there can be no doubt that she'll come, a hundred and fifty a year, without rent to pay. Why, that's affluence. The rooms I occupy are in the home itself. Amy won't take very readily to a dwelling of that kind. And Croydon isn't the most inviting locality. Close to delightful country. Yes, yes, but Amy doesn't care about that. You misjudge her, Reardon, you are too harsh. I implore you not to lose the chance of setting all right again, if only you could be put into my position for a moment, and then be offered the companionship of such a wife as yours. Reardon listened with a face of lowering excitement. I should be perfectly within my rights, he said sternly, if I merely told her when I have taken the position, and let her ask me to take her back, if she wishes. You have changed a great deal this last year, replied Biffin, shaking his head. A great deal. I hope to see you, your old self, again, before long. I should have declared it impossible for you to become so rugged. Go and see your wife, there's a good fellow. No, I shall write to her. Go and see her, I beg you, no good ever came of letter-writing between two people who have misunderstood each other. Go to Westbourne Park tomorrow, and be reasonable, be more than reasonable. The happiness of your life depends on what you do now. Be content to forget whatever wrong has been done you, to think that a man should need persuading to win back such a wife. In truth, there needed little persuasion. Perverseness, one of the forms or issues of self-pity, made him strive against his desire, and caused him to adopt a tone of acerbity in excess of what he felt. But already he had made up his mind to see Amy. Even if this excuse had not presented itself, he must very soon have yielded to the longing for a sight of his wife's face, which day by day increased among all the conflicting passions of which he was the victim. A month or two ago, when the summer sunshine made his confinement to the streets a daily torture, he convinced himself that there remained in him no trace of his love for Amy. There were moments when he thought of her with repugnance as a cold, selfish woman, who had feigned affection when it seemed her interest to do so. But brutally declared her true self when there is no longer anything to be hoped from him. That was the self-deception of misery. Love, even passion, was still alive in the depths of his being. The animation with which he sped to his friend, as soon as a new hope had risen, was the best proof of his feeling. He went home and wrote to Amy, I have a reason for wishing to see you. Will you have the kindness to appoint an hour on Sunday morning when I can speak with you in private? It must be understood that I shall see no one else. She would receive this by the first post tomorrow, Saturday, and doubtless would let him hear and reply sometime in the afternoon. Impatience allowed him little sleep, and the next day was a long queerness of waiting. The evening he would have to spend at the hospital. If there came no reply before the time of his leaving home, he knew not how he should compel himself to the ordinary routine of work. Yet the hour came, and he had heard nothing. He was tempted to go at once to Westbourne Park, but reason prevailed with him. When he again entered the house, having walked at his utmost speed from the city road, the letter lay waiting for him. It had been pushed beneath his door, and when he struck a match he found that one of his feet was upon the white envelope. Amy wrote that she would be at home at eleven tomorrow morning. Not another word. In all probability she knew of the offer that had been made to him. Mrs. Carter would have told her. Was it of good or of ill omen that she wrote only these half-dozen words? Halfway through the night he plagued himself with suppositions, now thinking that her brevity promised a welcome, now that she wished to warn him against expecting anything but a cold, offended demeanor. At seven he was dressed. Two and a half hours had to be killed before he could start on his walk westward. He would have wandered about the streets, but it rained. He had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he must necessarily seem an odd Sunday visitor at a house such as Mrs. Yule's. His soft felt hat, never brushed for months, was a grayish green, and stained round the band with perspiration. His necktie was discolored and worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass muster, but of the trousers, the less said the better. One of his boots was patched, but both were—and both were all but heelless. Very well, let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant to live on twelve and six pence a week. Though it was cold and wet, he could not put on his overcoat. Three years ago it had been a fairly good ulster. At present the edges of the sleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and the original hue of the cloth was indeterminable. At half-past nine he set out and struggled with his shabby umbrella against wind and rain. Down Pentonville Hill, up Euston Road, all along Merrillbone Road, then northwestwards towards the point of his destination. It was a good six miles from the one house to the other, but he arrived before the appointed time, and had to stray about until the cessation of bell clanging and the striking of clocks told him it was eleven. Then he presented himself at the familiar door. On his asking for Mrs. Reardon, he was at once admitted and led up to the drawing-room. The servant did not ask his name. Then he awaited for a minute or two, feeling himself a squalid wretch amid the dainty furniture. The door opened. Amy, in a simple but very becoming dress, approached to within a yard of him. After the first glance she had averted her eyes, and she did not offer to shake hands. He saw that his muddy and shapeless boots drew her attention. Do you know why I have come? he asked. He meant the tone to be conservatory, but he could not command his voice, and it sounded rough, hostile. I think so, Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She would have spoken with less dignity but for the accent of his. The carters have told you? Yes, I have heard about it. There was no promise in her manner. She kept her face turned away, and Reardon saw its beautiful profile, hard and cold as though in marble. It doesn't interest you at all? I'm glad to hear that a better prospect offers for you. He did not sit down, and withholding his rusty hat behind his back. You speak as if it in no way concerned yourself. Is that what you wish me to understand? Won't it be better if you tell me why you have come here? As you are resolved to find a fence in whatever I say, I prefer to keep silence. Please, to let me know why you have asked to see me. 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 the language of the other, that a revulsion of feeling undid all the more hopeful effects of their long severance. Unentering, 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 the 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? Nonetheless, such a tired degraded him in her eyes. It symbolized 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 harmonized 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 the 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 demoralizing 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 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. Pleased 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 a 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 never entertained for a moment the supposition that his wits were unsettled. But nonetheless 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 behavior 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 may not 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 woman 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. 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 refuse 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 were 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 lightheartedly as you do, Amy? I am far from taking it lightheartedly. 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 behavior to you? Remember how you have been speaking to me. And do 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 woman 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, and said a 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 rung 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 without any hope? He stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his fate. I have said that 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 a cheerless play 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 influencer 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. But midway in the week Carter discovered how ill his clerk was. You ought to be in bed, my dear fellow, with gruel and mustard-plasters and all the rest of it. Go home and take care of yourself. I insist upon it. Before leaving the office, Reardon wrote a few lines to Biffin, whom he had visited on the Monday. Come and see me if you can. I am down with the bad cold, and have to keep in for the rest of the week. All the same I feel far more cheerful. Bring a new chapter of your exhilarating romance. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of New Grapp Street This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Chessie New Grapp Street by George Kissing Chapter 26 Married Woman's Property On her return from church that Sunday, Mrs. Edmund Ewell was anxious to learn the result of the meeting between Amy and her husband. She hoped fervently that Amy's anomalous position would come to an end now that Reardon had the offer of something better than a mere clerkship. John Ewell never ceased to grumble at his sister's permanence in the house. Especially since he had learned that the money sent by Reardon each month was not made use of. Why it should not be applied for household expenses past his understanding. It seems to me, he remarked several times, that the fellow only does his bare duty in sending it. What is it to anyone else whether he lives on 12 shillings a week or 12 pens? It is his business to support his wife, if he can't do that to contribute as much to her support as possible. Amy's scruples are all very fine, if she could afford them. It's very nice to pay for your delicacies of feeling out of other people's pockets. There'll have to be a formal separation, was the startling announcement with which Amy answered her mother's inquiry as to what had passed. A separation? But my dear, Mrs Ewell could not express her disappointment in this may. We couldn't live together, it's no use trying. But at your age Amy, how can you think of anything so shocking? And then, you know it will be impossible for him to make you a sufficient allowance. I shall have to live as well as I can on the 75 pounds a year. If you can't afford to let me stay with you for that, I must go into cheap lodgings in the country like poor Mrs Butcher did. This was while talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and for the rest of the day she kept a part in her own room. On the morrow Mrs Ewell succeeded in eliciting a clear account of the conversation which had ended so hopelessly. I would rather spend the rest of my days in the workhouse than beg him to take me back, was Amy's final comment uttered with the earnestness which her mother understood by too well. But you are willing to go back dear? I told him so. Then you must leave this to me, the carters will let us know how things go on and when it seems to be time I must see Edwin myself. I can't allow that. Anything you could say on your own account would be useless, and there is nothing to say from me. Mrs Ewell kept her own counsel. She had a full month before her during which to consider the situation, but it was clear to her that these young people must be brought together again. Her estimate of Reardon's mental condition had undergone a sudden change from the moment when she heard that a respectable post was within his reach. She decided that he was strange, but then all men of literary talent had marked singularities, and doubtless she had been too hasty in interpreting the peculiar features natural to a character such as his. A few days later arrived the news of the relative's death at Wattleboro. This threw Mrs Ewell into a commotion. At first she decided to accompany her son and be present at the funeral. After changing her mind 20 times she determined not to go. John must send or bring back the news as soon as possible. That it would be of a nature sensibly to affect her own position, if not that of her children, she had little doubt. Her husband had been the favorite brother of the deceased, and on that account there was no saying how handsome a legacy she might receive. She dreamt of houses in South Kensington, of social ambitions gratified even thus late. On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John's return by a certain train, but no scrap of news was added. Just like that irritating boy, we must go to the station to meet him. You come won't you Amy? Amy readily consented, for she too had hopes, though circumstances blurred them. Mother and daughter were walking about the platform half an hour before the train was due. The agitation would have been manifest to anyone observing them. When at length the train rolled in and John was discovered, they pressed eagerly upon him. Don't you excite yourself? He said graphely to his mother. There's no reason whatever. Mrs. U glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab and took places with him. Now don't be provoking Jack, just tell us at once. By all means, you haven't a penny. I haven't? You are choking ridiculous boy. Never felt less disposed to, I assure you. After staring out of the window for a minute or two, he had length informed Amy of the extent to which he profited by Uncle's disease. Then made known what was bequeathed to himself. His temper grew worse every moment and he replied savagely to each successive question concerning the other items of the will. What have you to grumble about? asked Amy, whose face was exultant notwithstanding the drawbacks attaching to a good fortune. If Uncle Alfred receives nothing at all and mother has nothing, you ought to think yourself very lucky. It's very easy for you to say that with your ten thousand. But is it her own? asked Mrs. U. Is it for her separate use? Of course it is. She gets the benefit of last year's Married Woman's Property Act. The will was executed in January this year and I daresay the old curmudgeon destroyed a former one. What is planned at act of parliament that is? cried Amy, the only one worth anything that I ever heard of. But my dear began her mother in a tone of protest. However she reserved her common for a more fitting time and place and merely said, I wonder whether he had heard what has been going on. Do you think he would have altered his will if he had? asked Amy with a smile of security. Why did you use he should have left you so much in any cases more than I can understand? growled her brother. What's the use to me of a poll three thousand or two? It isn't enough to invest, isn't enough to do anything with? You may depend upon it, your cousin Marion thinks her five thousand good for something, said Mrs. U. Who was at the funeral? Don't be so surly Jack, tell us all about it. I'm sure if anyone has cause to be ill tempered it's poor me. Thus they talked amid the rattle of the cat wheels. By when they reached home silence had fallen upon them and each one was sufficiently occupied with private thoughts. Mrs. Yule's servants had a terrible time of it for the next few days. To affection it to turn her ill temper against John and Amy, she relieved herself by severity to the domestic slaves as an English matron is of course justified in doing. Her daughter's position cost her even more concern than before. She constantly lamented to herself. Oh, why didn't he die before she was married? In which case Amy would never have dreamt of wedding a penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the new aspect of things until 24 hours after John's return. Then she said, I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what I shall do then I don't know. You are sure to hear from Edwin, opined Mrs. Yule. I think not, he isn't the kind of man to behave in that way. Then I suppose you are bound to take the first step. That I shall never do. She said so, but the sudden happiness of finding herself wealthy was not without its softening effect on Amy's feelings. Generous impulses alternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her husband in his squalid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries and disillusions and to play the part of a generous wife. It would be possible now for them to go abroad and spend a year or two in helpful travel. The result in Reardon's case might be wonderful. He might recover all the energy of his imagination and resume his literary career from the point he had reached at the time of his marriage. On the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse into a life of scholarly self-indulgence such as he had often told her was his idea? In that he went, what tedium and regret lay before? Ten thousand pounds sounded well. But what did it represent in reality? A poor four hundred a year perhaps? Me a decency of obscure existence? Unless her husband could glorify it by winning fame. If he did nothing, she would be the wife of a man who had failed in literature. She would not be able to take a place in society. Life would be supported without struggle. Nothing more to be hoped. This view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the second day, she went to communicate her news to Mrs. Carter. This amiable lady had now become what she always desired to be. Amy's intimate friend. They saw each other very frequently and conversed of most things with much frankness. It was between 11 and 12 in the morning when Amy paid her visit and she found Mrs. Carter on the point of going out. I was coming to see you, cried Edith. Why haven't you let me know of what has happened? You have heard, I suppose. Albert heard from your brother. I supposed he would and I haven't felt in the mood for talking about it even with you. They went into Mrs. Carter's boudoir, a tiny room full of such pretty things as can be purchased nowadays by anyone who has a few shillings to spare and tolerable taste either of their own or at second hand. Had she been left to her instincts, Edith would have surrounded herself with objects representing a much earlier stage of artistic development. But she was quick to imitate what fashion declared becoming. Her husband regarded her as a remarkable authority in all matters of personal or domestic ornamentation. And what are you going to do? She inquired examining Amy from head to foot as if she thought that the inheritance of so substantial a sum must have produced visible changes in her friend. I am going to do nothing. But surely you're not in low spirits. What have I to rejoice about? They talked for a while before Amy brought herself to utter what she was thinking. Isn't it the most ridiculous thing that married people who both wish to separate can't do so and be quite free again? I suppose it would lead to all sorts of troubles, don't you think? So people say about every new step in civilization, what would have been thought 20 years ago of a proposal to make all married women independent of their husbands in money matters? All sorts of absurd dangers were foreseen no doubt, and it's the same now about divorce. In America people can get divorced if they don't suit each other, at all events in some of the states, and thus any harm come of it, just the opposite I should think. Edith mused. Such speculations were daring, but she had grown accustomed to think of Amy as an advanced woman and liked to imitate her in this respect. It does seem reasonable, she murmured. The law ought to encourage such separations instead of forbidding them. Amy pursued. If a husband and wife find that they have made a mistake, what useless cruelty is it to condemn them to suffer the consequences for the whole of their lives? I suppose it's to make people careful, said Edith with a laugh. If so, we know that it has always failed, and always will fail, so the sooner such a profitless law is altered, the better. Isn't there some society forgetting that kind of reform? I would subscribe 50 pounds a year to help it, wouldn't you? Yes, if I had it to spare, replied the other. Then they both laughed, but Edith the more naturally. Not on my own account, you know, she added. It's because women who are happily married can't and won't understand the position of those who are not that there's so much difficulty in reforming marriage laws. But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are to do I can't think. Oh, it's easy to see what I shall do. Of course I have no choice, really, and I ought to have a choice. That's the hardship and the wrong of it. Perhaps if I had, I should find a sort of pleasure in sacrificing myself. There were some new novels on the table. Amy took up a volume presently and glanced over a page or two. I don't know how you can go on reading that sort of stuff book after book, she exclaimed. Oh, but people say this last novel of Mark Lanz is one of his best. Best or worst, novels are all the same. Nothing but love, love, love. What silly nonsense it is. Why don't people write about the really important things of life? Some of the French novelists do. Several of Balzacs, for instance. I have just been reading his Cousin Pawn, a terrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much because it was nothing like a love story. What rubbish is printed about love? I get rather tired of it sometimes, admitted Edith with amusement. I should hope you do indeed. What downright lies I accepted as indisputable? That about love being a woman's whole life. Who believes it really? Love is the most insignificant thing in most women's lives. It occupies a few months, possibly a year or two, and even then I doubt if it is often the first consideration. Edith held her head aside and pondered smilingly. I'm sure there's a great opportunity for some clever novelist who will never write about love at all. But then it does come into life. Yes, for a month or two, as I say, think of the biographies of men and women, how many pages are devoted to their love affairs. Compare those books with novels which profess to be biographies, and you see how full such pictures are. Think of the very words novel, romance. What do they mean by the exaggeration of one bit of life? That may be true, but why do people find the subject so interesting? Because there is so little love in real life. That's the truth of it. Why do poor people care only for stories about the rich, the same principle? How clever you are, Amy! Am I? It's very nice to be told so. Perhaps I have some cleverness of a kind. But what uses it to me? My life is being wasted. I ought to have a place in the society of clever people. I was never meant to live quietly in the background. Oh, if I hadn't been in such a hurry and so inexperienced. Oh, I wanted to ask you, said Edith, soon after this. Do you wish Albert to say anything about you at the hospital? There's no reason why he shouldn't. You won't even write to say, I shall do nothing. Since departing from her husband, there had proceeded in Amy a noticeable maturing of intellect. Probably the one thing was a consequence of the other. During that last year in the flat, her mind was held captive by material cares. And this arrest of her natural development doubtless had much to do with the appearance of a serbity in a character which had displayed so much sweetness, so much womanly grace. Moreover, it was a rest at a critical point. When she fell in love with Edwin Reardon, her mind had still to undergo the culture of circumstances. Though a woman in years, she had seen nothing of life but a few phases of artificial society. And her education had not progressed beyond the final schoolgirl stage. Submitting herself to Reardon's influence, she passed through what was a highly useful training of the intellect. But with the result that she became clearly conscious of the divergence between herself and her husband. In endeavouring to imbue her with his own literary tastes, Reardon instructed Amy as to the natural tendencies of her mind, which till then she had not clearly understood. When she ceased to read with the eyes of passion, most of the things which were Reardon's supreme interests lost their value for her. A sound intelligence enabled her to think and feel in many directions. But the special line of her growth lay apart from that in which the novelist and classical scholar had directed her. When she found herself alone and independent, her mind acted like a spring when pressure is removed. After a few weeks of désœuvrement, she obeyed the impulse to occupy herself with a kind of reading alien to Reardon's sympathies. The solid periodicals attracted her and especially those articles which dealt with themes of social science. Anything that savoured of newness and boldness in philosophic thought had a charm for her palette. She read a good deal of that kind of literature which may be defined as specialism popularized. Writing which addresses itself to educated but not strictly studious persons and which forms the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphere of turf and west-endism. Thus for instance, though she could not undertake the volumes of Herbert Spencer, she was intelligently acquainted with the tenor of their contents. And though she had never opened one of Darwin's books, her knowledge of his main theories and illustrations was respectable. She was becoming a typical woman of the new time, the woman who has developed concurrently with journalistic enterprise. Not many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she had occasion to visit Moody's for the new number of some periodical which contained an appetizing title. As it was sunny and warm day, she walked to New Oxford Street from the nearest metropolitan station. Whilst waiting at the library counter, she heard a familiar voice in her proximity. It was that of Jasper Millwain who stood talking with a middle-aged lady. As Amy turned to look at him, his eye met hers. Clearly he had been aware of her. The review she desired was handed to her. She moved aside and turned over the pages. Then Millwain walked up. He was armed capper-pee in the fashions of Swarth society. No bohemianism of garb or person, for Jasper knew he could not afford that kind of economy. On her part Amy was much better dressed than usual, a costume suited to a position of bereaved heiress. What a time since we met, said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved hand and looking into her face with his most effective smile. And why? asked Amy. Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs. Ewell is well. Quiet, thank you. It seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass and so make an end of the colloquy. But Amy, though she moved forward, added a remark. I don't see her name in any of this month's magazines. I have nothing signed this month, a short review in the current, that's all. But I suppose you write as much as ever. Yes, but chiefly in weekly papers just now, you don't see the will or the wisp. Oh yes, and I think I can generally recognize your hand. They're issued from the library. Which way are you going? Jasper inquired with something more of the old freedom. I walked from Gower Street station, and I think as it's so fine, I shall walk back again. He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after short silence, made inquiry concerning his sisters. I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better to let the acquaintance end there. I really didn't think of it in that way at all. Jasper replied, we naturally understood it so when you even ceased to call yourself. But don't you feel that there would have been a good deal of awkwardness in my coming to Mrs. Ewells? Seeing that you looked at things from my husband's point of view? Oh, that's a mistake. I have only seen your husband once since he went to Islington. Amy gave him a look of surprise. You are not unfriendly terms with him? Well, we have drifted apart. For some reason he seemed to think that my companionship was not very profitable. So it was better, on the whole, that I should see neither you nor him. Amy was wondering whether he had heard of her legacy. He might have been informed by a water borough correspondent, even if no one in London had told him. Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marion? She asked, quitting the previous difficult topic. Oh, yes, he smiled. They see a great deal of each other. Then, of course, you have heard of my uncle's death. Yes, I hope all your difficulties are now at an end. Amy, the later moment, then said. I hope so, without any emphasis. Do you think of spending this winter abroad? It was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future of Amy and her husband. Everything is still quite uncertain, but tell me something about our old acquaintances. How does Mr. Biffin get on? I scarcely ever see him, but I think he packs away at an interminable novel which no one will publish when it's done. Well, Dale, I meet occasionally. He talked of the latter's projects and achievements in a lively strain. Your own prospects continue to brighten, no doubt, said Amy. I really think they do. Things go fairly well, and I have lately received a promise of very valuable help. From whom? A relative of yours? Amy turned to interrogate him with a look. A relative? You mean? Yes, Marianne. They were passing Bedford Square. Amy glanced at the trees, now almost bare foliage. Then her eyes met Jasper's, and she smiled significantly. I should have thought your aim would have been far more ambitious, she said, with distinct utterance. Marianne and I have been engaged for some time, practically. Indeed, I remember now how you once spoke of her, and you will be married soon. Probably before the end of the year. I see that you are criticizing my motives. I am quite prepared for that in everyone who knows me and the circumstances, but you must remember that I couldn't foresee anything of this kind. It enables us to marry sooner, that's all. I am sure your motives are unassailable, replied Amy, still with a smile. I imagined that you wouldn't marry for years, and then some distinguished person. This froze new light upon your character. You thought me so desperately scheming and cold-blooded? Oh dear no! But, well, to be sure, I can't say that I know Marianne. I haven't seen her for years and years. She may be admirably suited to you. Depend upon it, I think so. She is likely to shine in society. She is a brilliant girl, full of tact and insight. Scarcely all that, perhaps. He looked dubiously at his companion. Then you have abandoned your old ambitions, Amy pursued. Not a bit of it. I am on the way to achieve them. And Marianne is the ideal wife to assist you. From one point of view, yes. Pray, why all this ironic questioning? Not ironic at all. It sounded very much like it, and I know from of old that you have a tendency that way. The news surprised me a little, I confess, but I see that I am in danger of offending you. Let us wait another five years, and then I will ask your opinion as to the success of my marriage. I don't take a step of this kind without maturely considering it. Have I made many blunders as yet? As yet, not that I know of. Do I impress you as a one likely to commit follies? I had rather wait a little before answering that. That is to say you prefer to prophesy after the event. Very well, we shall see. In the length of Gower Street they talked of several other things less personal. By degrees the tone of their conversation had become what it was used to be, now and then almost confidential. You are still at the same lodgings, asked Amy as they drew near to the railway station. I moved yesterday so that the girls and I could be under the same roof, until the next change. You will let us know when that takes place. He promised, and with exchange of smiles, which were something like a challenge, that took leave of each other. Recording by Marianne New Grub Street by George Gissing Chapter 27 The Lonely Man Part 1 A touch of congestion in the right lung was a warning to Reardon that his half-year of insufficient food and general waste of strength would make the coming winter a hard time for him, worse probably than the last. Biffen, responding in person to the summons, found him in bed, waited upon by a gaunt, dry, sententious woman of sixty. Not the landlady, but a lodger who was glad to earn one meal a day by any means that offered. It wouldn't be very nice to die here, would it? said the sufferer, with a laugh, which was cut short by a cough. One would like a comfortable room, at least. Why? I don't know. I dreamt last night that I was in a ship that had struck something and was going down, and it wasn't the thought of death that most disturbed me, but a horror of being plunged into the icy water. In fact, I've had just the same feeling on ship-board. I remember waking up midway between Corfu and Brindisi on that shabby tub of a Greek boat. We were rolling a good deal, and I heard a sort of alarmed rush and shouting up on deck. It was so warm and comfortable in the berth, and I thought with intolerable horror of the possibility of saucing into the black depths. Don't talk, my boy, advised Biffin. Let me read you the new chapter of Mr. Bailey. It may induce a refreshing slumber. Reardon was away from his duties for a week. He returned to them with a feeling of extreme shakiness and in disposition to exert himself at a complete disregard that the course of events were taking. It was fortunate that he had kept aside that small store of money designed for emergencies. He was able to draw on it now to pay his doctor and provide himself with better nourishment than usual. He purchased new boots, too, and some articles of warm clothing of which he stood in need, an alarming outlay. A change had come over him. He was no longer rendered miserable by thoughts of Amy. Seldom, indeed, turned his mind to her at all. His secretarieship at Croydon was a haven within view. The income of seventy-five pounds, the other half to go to his wife, would support him luxuriously, and for anything beyond that he seemed to care little. Next Sunday he would go over to Croydon and see the institution. One evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street and greeted his friends with more show of light-heartedness than he had been capable of for at least two years. I have been as nearly as possible a happy man all today, he said, when his pipe was well lit. Partly the sunshine, I suppose. There's no saying if the mood will last, but if it does, all is well with me. I regret nothing and wish for nothing. A morbid state of mind was Biffen's opinion. No doubt of that, but I am content to be indebted to morbidness. One must have a rest for misery somehow. Another kind of man would have taken to drinking. That has tempted me now and then, I assure you, but I couldn't afford it. Did you ever feel tempted to drink merely for the sake of forgetting trouble? Often enough, I have done it. I have deliberately spent a certain portion of the money that ought to have gone for food in the cheapest kind of strong liquor. Ha! That's interesting, but it never got the force of a habit you had to break. No, partly, I daresay, because I had the warning of poor psychs before my eyes. You never see that poor fellow? Never, he must be dead, I think. He would die either in the hospital or the workhouse. Well, said Reardon, musing cheerfully, I shall never become a drunkard. I haven't that diathesis to use your expression. Doesn't it strike you that you and I are very respectable persons? We really have no vices. Put us on a social pedestal and we should be shining lights of morality. I sometimes wonder at our inoffensiveness. Why don't we run amuck against law and order? Why, at the least, don't we become savage revolutionists and harangue in Regent's park of a Sunday? Because we are passive beings and we're meant to enjoy life very quietly. As we can't enjoy, we just suffer quietly, that's all. By the by, I want to talk about a difficulty in one of the fragments of Euripides. Did you ever go through the fragments? This made a diversion for half an hour, then Bearden turned to his former line of thought. As I was entering patience yesterday, there came up to the table a tall, good-looking, very quiet girl, poorly dressed, but as neat as could be. She gave me her name, that I asked, Occupation. She said at once, I'm unfortunate, sir. I couldn't help looking up at her in surprise. I'd taken it for granted she was a dressmaker or something of the kind, and, do you know, I never felt so strong an impulse to shake hands, to show sympathy, and even respect in some way. I should have liked to say, why, I am unfortunate too, such a good patient face she had. I distressed such appearances, said Biffin, in his quality of realist. Well, so do I as a rule, but in this case they were very convincing, and there was no need whatever for her to make such a declaration. She might just as well have said anything else. It's the merest form. I shall always hear her voice saying, I'm unfortunate, sir. She made me feel what a mistake it was for me to marry such a girl as Amy. I ought to have looked about for some simple, kind-hearted work-girl. That was the kind of wife indicated for me by circumstances. If I had earned a hundred a year she would have thought we were well to do. I should have been an authority to her on everything under the sun and above it. No ambition would have unsettled her. We should have lived in a couple of poor rooms somewhere, and we should have loved each other. What a shameless idealist you are, said Biffin, shaking his head. Let me stretch the true issue of such a marriage. To begin with, the girl would have married you in firm persuasion that you were a gentleman in temporary difficulties, and that before long you would have plenty of money to dispose of. Disappointed in this hope she would have grown sharp-tempered, quarrelous, selfish. All your endeavors to make her understand you would only have resulted in widening the impassable gulf. She would have misconstrued your every sentence, found food for suspicion in every harmless joke, tormented you with the vulgarest forms of jealousy. The effect upon your nature would have been degrading. In the end you must have abandoned every effort to raise her to your own level, and either have sunk to hers or made a rupture. Who doesn't know the story of such attempts? I myself, ten years ago, was on the point of committing such a folly, but heaven be praised, an accident saved me. You never told me that story? And I don't care to now. I prefer to forget it. Well, you can judge for yourself, but not for me. Of course I might have chosen the wrong girl, but I am supposing that I had been fortunate. In any case, there would have been a much better chance than in the marriage that I made. Your marriage was sensible enough, and a few years hence you will be a happy man again. You seriously think Amy will come back to me? Of course I do. Upon my word I don't know that I desire it. Because you are in a strangely unhealthy state. I rather think I regard the matter more sanely than ever yet. I'm quite free from sexual bias. I can see that Amy was not my fit intellectual companion, and all emotion at the thought of her has gone from me. The word love is a weariness to me. If only our idiotic laws permitted us to break the legal bond, how glad both of us would be. You are depressed and anemic. Get yourself in flesh and view things like a man of this world. But don't you think it's the best thing that can happen to a man if he outgrows passion? In certain circumstances no doubt. In all and any, the best moments of life are those when we contemplate beauty in the purely artistic spirit, objectively. I have had such moments in Greece and Italy, times when I was a free spirit, utterly remote from the temptations and harassings of sexual emotion. What we call love is mere turmoil, who wouldn't release himself from it forever if the possibility offered. Oh, there is a good deal to be said for that, of course. Reardon's face was illumined with a glow of an exquisite memory. Haven't I told you, he said, of that marvelous sunset at Athens? I was on the nicks, had been rambling about there the whole afternoon, for I daresay a couple of hours I had noticed a growing rift of light in the clouds to the west. It looked as if the dull day might have a rich ending. That rift grew broader and brighter, the only bit of light in the sky. On Parnes there were white strips of ragged mist, hanging very low. The same on Hymetis. And even the peak of Lycobetis was just hidden. Of a sudden, the sun's rays broke out. They showed themselves first in a strangely beautiful way, striking from behind the seaward hills through the pass that leads to Elusis. And so gleaming on the nearest slopes of the Galeos, making the clefts black and the rounded parts of the mountain wonderfully brilliant with golden color. All the rest of the landscape, remember, was untouched with a ray of light. This lasted only a minute or two. Then the sun itself sank into the open patch of sky and shot glory in every direction. Broadening beams smote upwards over the dark clouds and made them lurid yellow. To the left of the sun, the gulf of Aegina was all golden mist, the islands floating in it vaguely. To the right, over black salamis, lay delicate strips of pale blue, indescribably pale and delicate. You remember it very clearly. As if I saw it now, but wait, I turned eastward, and there to my astonishment was a magnificent rainbow, a perfect semicircle stretching from the foot of Parnes to that of Hymetis. Framing Athens and its hills, which grew brighter and brighter, the brightness for which there is no name among colors. Hymetis was of a soft misty warmth, something tending to purple, its ridges marked by exquisitely soft and indefinite shadows, the rainbow coming right down in front, the acropolis simply glowed and blazed. As the sun descended, all these colors grew richer and warmer. For a moment the landscape was nearly crimson. Then suddenly the sun passed into the lower stratum of cloud and the splendor died almost at once, except that there remained the northern half of the rainbow, which had become double. In the west the clouds were still glorious for a time. There were two shaped like great expanded wings, edged with refulgence. Stop! cried Biffin, or I shall clutch you by the throat. I warned you before that I can't stand those reminiscences. Live in hope, scrape together twenty pounds and go there if you die of hunger afterwards. I shall never have twenty shillings, was the despondent answer. I feel sure you will sell Mr. Bailey. It's kind of you to encourage me, but if Mr. Bailey is ever sold, I don't mind undertaking to eat my duplicates of the proofs. But now you remember what led me to that. What does a man care for any woman on earth when he is absorbed in contemplation of that kind? But it is only one of life's satisfactions. I am only maintaining that it is the best and infinitely preferable to sexual emotion. It leaves no doubt, no bitterness of any kind. Poverty can't rob me of those memories. I have lived in an ideal world that was not deceitful, a world which seems to me, when I recall it, beyond the human sphere, bathed in divine or light. It was four or five days after this that Reardon, ongoing to his work in City Road, found a note from Carter. It requested him to call at the main hospital at half past eleven the next morning. He supposed the appointment had something to do with his business at Croydon, whether he had been in the meantime. Some unfavorable news, perhaps. Any misfortune was likely. He answered the summons punctually, and on entering the general office was received by the clerk to wait in Mr. Carter's private room. The secretary had not yet arrived. His waiting lasted some ten minutes. Then the door opened and admitted, not Carter, but Mrs. Edmund Yule. Reardon stood up in perturbation. He was anything but prepared or disposed for an interview with this lady. She came towards him with hand extended and a countenance of suave friendliness. I doubted whether you would see me if I let you know, she said, forgive me this bit of scheming, will you? I have something so very important to speak to you about. He said nothing but kept a demeanor of courtesy. I think you haven't heard from Amy, Mrs. Yule asked. Not since I saw her. And you don't know what has come to pass. I have heard nothing. I'm come to see you quite on my own responsibility, quite. I took Mr. Carter into my confidence but begged him not to let Mrs. Carter know, lest she should tell Amy. I think he will keep his promise. It seemed to me that it was really my duty to do whatever I could in these sad, sad circumstances. Reardon listened respectfully but without sign of feeling. I had better tell you at once that Amy's uncle at Waterborough is dead and that in his will he has bequeathed her ten thousand pounds. Mrs. Yule watched the effect of this. For a moment none was visible but she saw at length that Reardon's lips trembled and his eyebrows twitched. I am glad to hear of her good fortune, he said distantly and in even tones. You will feel, I am sure, continued his mother-in-law, that this must put an end to your most unhappy differences. How can it have that result? It puts you both in a very different position, does it not? But for your distressing circumstances I am sure that there would never have been such unpleasantness, never. Neither you nor Amy is the kind of person to take a pleasure in disagreement. Let me beg you to go and see her again. Everything is so different now. Amy has not the faintest idea that I have come to see you and she mustn't on any account be told. For her worst fault is that sensitive pride of hers and I'm sure she wouldn't be offended, Edwin, if I say that you have very much the same failing. Between two such sensitive people differences might last a lifetime unless one could be persuaded to take the first step. Do be generous. A woman is privileged to be a little obstinate, it is always said. Overlook the fault and persuade her to let bygones be bygones. There was an involuntary effectiveness in Mrs. Ewell's speech which repelled Reardon. He could not even put faith in her assurance that Amy knew nothing of this intercession. In any case it was extremely distasteful to him to discuss such matters with Mrs. Ewell. Under no circumstances could I do more than I have already done, he replied. After what you have told me it is impossible for me to go and see her unless she expressly invites me. Oh, if only you would overcome this sensitiveness. It is not in my power to do so. My poverty, as you justly say, was the cause of our parting. But if Amy is no longer poor that is very far from a reason why I should go to her as a suppliant for forgiveness. But do consider the facts of the case independently of feeling. I really think I don't go too far in saying that at least some, some provocation was given by you, most of all. I'm so very, very far from wishing to say anything disagreeable. I'm sure you feel that, but wasn't there some little ground for complaint on Amy's part? Wasn't there now? Reardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to think over what had happened, and Mrs. Ewell's urgent voice rasped on his ears. Its very smoothness made it worse. There may have been ground for grief and concern, but no, I think not. But I understand, the voice sounded rather irritable now, that you positively reproached and upbraided her because she was reluctant to go and live in some very shocking place. I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown, but I can't review our troubles in this way. Am I depleted in vain? I regret very much that I can't possibly do as you wish. It is all between Amy and myself, and interference by other people cannot do any good. I'm sorry you should use such a word as interference, replied Mrs. Ewell, bridling a little. Very sorry indeed, I confess it didn't occur to me that my good will to you could be seen in that light. Believe me, I didn't use the word offensively. Then you refused to take any step towards a restoration of good feeling. I'm obliged to, and Amy would understand that earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs. Ewell had no choice but to rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded herself sufficiently to offer a regretful hand. I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate. Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospital and walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction. End of Chapter 27 Part 1 Chapter 27 Part 2 of New Grub Street LibriVox Recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Chessie New Grub Street by George Kissing Chapter 27 Part 2 Ah, if this had happened in the first year of his marriage what more blessed man than he would have walked the earth. But it came after irreparable harm. No amount of wealth could undo the ruin caused by poverty. It was natural for him as soon as he could think with deliberation to turn towards his only friend. But on calling at the house in Clifstone Street he found the garret empty and no one could tell him when its occupant was likely to be back. He left a note and made his way back to Islington. The evening had to be spent at the hospital. But on his return Biffen said waiting for him. You called about 12 didn't you? The visitor inquired. Half past. I was at the police court. Odd thing, but it always happened so that I should have spoken of Sykes the other night. Last night I came upon a crowd in Oxford Street and the nucleus of it was no other than Sykes himself in the grip of two policemen. Nothing could be done for him. I was useless as bail. He even had to sleep in the cell. But I went this morning to see what would become of him. Such a spectacle when they brought him forward. It was only five shillings fine and to my astonishment he produced the money. I joined him outside. It required a little courage and had a long talk with him. He's writing a London letter for some provincial daily and the first payment had thrown him off his balance. Reardon laughed gaily and made inquiries about the eccentric gentleman. Only when the subject was exhausted did he speak of his own concerns relating quietly what he had learned from Mrs. Yule. Biffen's eyes widened. So Reardon cried with exaltation there is the last burden of my mind. Henceforth I haven't a care. The only thing that still troubled me was my inability to give Amy enough to live upon. Now she is provided for in Secula Secularum. Isn't this grand news? Decidedly, but if she's provided for so are you. Biffen, you know me better. Could I accept the farthing of her money? This has made our coming together again forever impossible unless. Unless dead things can come to life. I know the value of money but I can't take it from Amy. The other kept silence. No, but now everything is well. She has her child and can devote herself to bringing the boy up. And I? But I shall be rich on my own account. A hundred and fifty a year. It would be a farce to offer Amy a share of it. By all the gods of Olympus we will go to Greece together. You and I. Poo! I swear it. Let me say for a couple of years and then get a good month's holiday or more if possible and as Pallas Athene liveth we shall find ourselves at Marseilles going aboard some boat of the misagerie. I can't believe yet that this is true. Come, we will have a supper tonight. Come out into Upper Street and let us eat, drink and be merry. You are beside yourself. But never mind. Let us rejoice by all means. There's every reason. That poor girl. Now at last she'll be at ease. Who? Amy, of course. I'm delighted on her account. Ah, but if it had come a long time ago in the happy days then she too would have gone to Greece, wouldn't she? Everything in life comes too soon or too late. What it would have meant for her and for me. She would never have hated me then. Never. Bithyn. Am I base or contemptible? She thinks so. That's how poverty has served me. If you had seen her, how she looked at me when we met the other day you would understand well enough why I couldn't live with her now not if she entreated me too. That would make me base if you like. Gods, how ashamed I should be if I yielded to such a temptation. And once he had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that length his voice choked and tears burst from his eyes. Come out and let us have a walk, said Bithyn. On leaving the house they found themselves in a thick fog through which trickled drops of warm rain. Nevertheless they pursued their purpose and presently were seated in one of the boxes of a small coffee shop. Their only companion in the place was a cab driver who had just finished a meal and was now nodding into slumber over his plate and cup. Reardon ordered fried ham and eggs, the luxury of the poor and when the attendant woman was gone away to execute the order he burst into excited laughter. Here we sit, two literary men. How should we be regarded by? He named two or three of the successful novelists of the day. With what magnificence gone they would turn from us and our squalid feast. They have never known struggle, not they. They are public school men, university men, club men, society men. An income of less than three or four hundred a year is inconceivable to them. That seems the minimum for an educated man's support. It would be small-minded to think of them with ranker, but by Apollo I know that we should change places with them if the work we have done will justly wait against theirs. What does it matter? We are different types of intellectual workers. I think of them savagely now and then, but only when hunger gets a trifle too keen. Their work answers the demand. Ours, or mine at all events, doesn't. They are in touch with the reading multitude. They have the sentiments of the respectable. They write for their class. Well, you had your circle of readers, and if things hadn't gone against you by this time you certainly could have counted on your free of four hundred a year. It's unlikely that I should ever have got more than two hundred pounds for a book, and to have kept it my best, I must have been content to publish once every two or three years. The position was untenable with no private income. And I must need marry a wife of dainty instincts. What astounding impudence! No wonder fate pitched me aside into the gutter. They ate their ham and eggs and accelerated themselves with a cup of chicory called coffee. Then Biffen drew from the pocket of his venerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought, and their talk turned once more to the land of the sun. Only when the coffee shop was closed did they go forth again into the foggy street, and at the top of Penton Will Hill they stood for ten minutes debating a magical effect in one of the fragments. Day after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By evening his pulse was always rapid, and no extremity of weariness brought him a refreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either depressed or excited, more often the latter. Safe when attending to his duties at the hospital he made no pretense of employing himself. If at home he sat for hours without opening a book, and his walks, accepting when they let him to Clipstone Street, were aimless. The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of suspense. At eight o'clock each morning he stood by his window, listening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached he went out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded at the door of his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling in expectation. But the latter was never for him. When his agitation had subsided he felt glad of the disappointment, and laughed and sang. One day Carter appeared at a city road establishment and made an opportunity of speaking to his clerk in private. I suppose, he said with a smile, they'd have to look out for someone else at Croydon. By no means, the thing is settled, I go at Christmas. You really mean that? Undoubtedly. Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private circumstances, the secretary said no more and went away convinced that misfortunes had turned to the poor fellow's brain. Wondering in the city about this time, Reardon encountered his friend the realist. Would you like to meet Sykes? asked Biffen. I'm just going to see him. Where does he live? In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel he spends his mornings at some reading rooms. The admission is only a penny, and there he can see all the papers and do his writing and enjoy a grateful temperature. They repaired to the haunting question. A flight of stairs brought them to a small room in which were exposed the daily newspapers. Another ascent, and they were in a room devoted to magazines, chess and refreshments. Yet another, and they reached the department of weekly publications. Lastly, at the top of the house, they found a lavatory and a chamber for the use of those who desired to write. The walls of this last retreat were of blue plaster and sloped inwards from the floor. Along them stood school desks with benches, and in one place was suspended a ragged and dirty card, announcing that paper and envelopes could be purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste paper and a small stove occupied two corners. Ink blotches, satirical designs and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural adornment. From the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing and spluttering, and the busy street far below sent up its confused noises. Two persons only sat at the desks. One was a hunger-bitten, out-of-work clerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements. In front of him laid two or three finished letters, and on the ground at his feet were several crumpled sheets of note paper, representing abortive essays in composition. The other man, also occupied with the pen, looked about forty years old and was clad in a very rusty suit of tweeds. On the bench beside him lay a grey overcoat and a silk hat, which had for some time been molting. His face declared the habit to which he was a victim, but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression. On the contrary it was pleasing, amiable and rather quaint. At this moment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With coat sleeve turned back so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist, revealing meanwhile a flannel shirt of singular colour, and with his collar unbuttoned, he wore no tie, to leave his throat at ease as he bent myopically over the paper, he was writing at express speed, evidently in the full rush of the ardour of composition. The wanes of his forehead were dilated and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one think of a racing horse. Are you too busy to talk? asked Biffin, going to his side. I am, upon my soul I am! exclaimed the other looking up in alarm. For the love of heaven don't put me out, a quarter of an hour. All right, I'll come up again. The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers. Now let's try him again, said Biffin, when considerably more than the requested time had elapsed. They went up and found Mr. Sykes in an attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back his coat sleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips of completed manuscript. Biffin presented his companion and Mr. Sykes greeted the novelist with much geniality. What do you think this is? he exclaimed, pointing to his work. The first instalment of my autobiography for the Shropshire Weekly Herald. Anonymous of course, but strictly voracious, with the omission of some really little personal failings, which are nothing to the point. I call it, through the wilds of literary London. An old friend of mine edits the Herald, and I'm indebted to him for the suggestion. His voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man of education. Most people will take it for fiction. I wish I had inventive power enough to write fiction anything like it. I have published novels, Mr. Rieden, but my experience in that branch of literature was peculiar. As I may say, it has been in most others to which I have applied myself. My first stories were written for the young ladies' favourite, and most remarkable productions they were, I promise you. That was 15 years ago in the days of my versatility. I could throw off my supplemental novellet of 15,000 words without turning a hair, and immediately after it fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the illustrated history of the United States, which I was then doing for Edward Coughlin. But presently I thought myself too good for the favourite. In an evil day I began to write three volume novels, aiming at reputation. It wouldn't do. I persevered for five years and made about five failures. Then I went back to Bowering. Take me on again, old man, will you? Bowering was a man of few words, he said, blaze away, my boy. And I tried to, but it was no use. I had got out of the style. My writing was too literary by a long choke. For a whole year I deliberately strove to write badly, but Bowering was so pained with the feebleness of my efforts that it last he sternly bade me avoid his sight. What a devil, he wrote one day. Do you mean by sending me stories about men and women? You ought to know better than that, a fellow of your experience. So I had to give it up, and there was an end of my career as a writer of fiction. He shook his head sadly. Biffen, he continued, when I first made his acquaintance, had an idea of writing for the working classes. And what do you think he was going to offer them? Stories about the working classes. Nay, never hang your head for it, old boy. It was excusable in the days of your youth. Why, Mr. Rieden, as no doubt you know well enough, nothing can induce working men or women to read stories that treat of their own world. They are the most consumed idealists in creation, especially the women. Again and again, work girls have said to me, Oh, I don't like that book, it's nothing but real life. It's the fault of women in general, remarked Rieden. So it is, but it comes out with delicious naivete in the working classes. Now, educated people like to read of scenes that are familiar to them, though I grant you that the picture must be idealized if you're to appeal to more than one in a thousand. The working classes detest anything that tries to represent their daily life. It isn't because their life is too painful. No, no, it's downright snobbishness. Dickens goes down only with the best of them, and then solely because of his strength in farce and his melodrama. Presently the three went out together and had dinner at an Alamut beef shop. Mr. Sykes ate little, but took copious libations of porter at two pence a pint. When the meal was over, he grew taciturn. Can you walk westwards? Biffen asked. I'm afraid not, afraid not. In fact, I have an appointment at two, at Old Gate Station. They parted from him. Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious, said Biffen. Poor fellow. Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse would be better, I should think. No, no, let a man bring himself to death rather. I have a horror of the workhouse. Remember the clock at Merly Bone I used to tell you about? Unfilosophic. I don't think I should be unhappy in the workhouse. I should have a certain satisfaction in the thought that I had forced society to support me. And then the absolute freedom from care. Why? It's very much the same as being a man of independent fortune. It was about a week after this, midway in November, that their length came to Manwell Street a letter addressed in Amy's hand. It arrived at three one afternoon. Reardon heard the postman, but he had ceased to rush out on every such occasion, and today he was feeling ill. Lying upon his bed, he had just raised his head wearily when he became aware that someone was mounting to his room. He sprang up, his face and neck flushing. This time Amy began, Dear Edwin, the sight of those words made his brain swim. You must, of course, have heard, she wrote, that my Uncle John has left me ten thousand pounds. It has not yet come into my possession, and I had decided that I would not write to you till that happened. But perhaps you may altogether misunderstand my silence. If this money had come to me when you were struggling so hard to earn a living for us, we should never have spoken the words and thought the thoughts which now make it so difficult for me to write to you. What I wish to say is that, although the property is legally my own, I quite recognize that you have a right to share in it. Since we have lived apart, you have sent me far more than you could really afford, believing it your duty to do so. Now that things are so different, I wish you, as well as myself, to benefit by the change. I said at our last meeting that I should be quite prepared to return to you if you took that position at Croydon. There is now no need for you to pursue a kind of work for which you are quite unfitted. And I repeat that I am willing to live with you as before. If you will tell me where you would like to make a new home, I shall gladly agree. I do not think you would care to leave London permanently, and certainly I should not. Pleased to let me hear from you as soon as possible. In writing like this, I feel that I have done what you expressed a wish that I should do. I have asked you to put an end to our separation, and I trust that I have not asked in vain. Yours always, Amy Reardon. The letter fell from his hand. It was such a letter as you might have expected, but the beginning misled him, and as his agitation throbbed itself away, he suffered an encroachment of despair, which made him for a time unable to move or even think. His reply, written by the dreary twilight which represented sunset, run thus. Dear Amy, I thank you for your letter, and I appreciate your motive in writing it. But if you feel that you have done what I expressed a wish that you should do, you must have strangely misunderstood me. The only one thing that I wished was that by some miracle your love for me might be revived. Can I persuade myself that this is the letter of a wife who desires to return to me, because in her heart she loves me? If that is the truth, you have been most unfortunate in trying to express yourself. You have written because it seemed your duty to do so. But indeed, a sense of duty such as this is a mistaken one. You have no love for me, and where there is no love, there is no mutual obligation in marriage. Perhaps you think that regard for social conventions will necessitate your living with me again. But have more courage. Refuse to act falsehoods. Tell society it is base and brutal, and that you prefer to live an honest life. I cannot share your wealth, dear. But as you have no longer need of my help, as we are now quite independent of each other, I shall cease to send the money which hitherto I have considered yours. In this way I shall have enough and more than enough for my necessities, so that you will never have to trouble yourself with the thought that I am suffering privations. At Christmas I go to Croydon, and I will then write to you again. For we may at all events be friendly. My mind is relieved from ceaseless anxiety on your account. I know now that you are safe from that accursed poverty which is to blame for all our sufferings. You I do not blame, though I have sometimes done so. My own experience teaches me how kindness can be embittered by misfortune. Some great and noble sorrow may have the effect of drawing hearts together, but to struggle against destitution, to be crushed by care about chillings and sixpences, death must always degrade. No other reply than this is possible, so I beg you not to write in this way again. Let me know if you go to live elsewhere. I hope really is well and that his growth is still a delight and happiness to you. Edwin Reardon. That one word, dear, occurring in the middle of the letter, gave him pause as he read the lines over. Should he not obliterate it and even in such a way that Amy might see what he had done? His pen was dipped in the ink for that purpose, but after all he held his hand. Amy was still dear to him, say what he might, and if she noticed the word, if she pondered over it. A street gas lamp prevented the room from becoming absolutely dark. When he had closed the envelope he laid down on his bed again and watched a flickering yellowness upon the ceiling. He ought to have some tea before going to the hospital, but he cared so little for it that the trouble of boiling water was too great. The flickering light grew fainter. He understood at length that this was caused by fog that had begun to descend. The fog was his enemy. It would be wise to purchase a respirator if this hideous weather continued. For sometimes his throat burned, and there was a rasping in his chest which gave disagreeable admonition. He fell asleep for half an hour, and on a waking he was feverish, as usual at this time of day. Well, it was time to go to his work. Agh, that first mouthful of fog! End of Chapter 27 Part 2