CHAPTER XIX. THE PAST REVIVED
Nor would it be true to represent Edwin Reardon as rising to the
new day wholly disconsolate. He too had slept unusually well, and
with returning consciousness the sense of a burden removed was
more instant than that of his loss and all the dreary
circumstances attaching to it. He had no longer to fear the
effects upon Amy of such a grievous change as from their homelike
flat to the couple of rooms he had taken in Islington; for the
moment, this relief helped him to bear the pain of all that had
happened and the uneasiness which troubled him when he reflected
that his wife was henceforth a charge to her mother.
Of course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move
about, to prepare his breakfast (amid the relics of last
evening’s meal), to think of all the detestable work he had to do
before to-morrow night, than his heart sank again. His position
was well-nigh as dolorous as that of any man who awoke that
morning to the brutal realities of life. If only for the shame of
it! How must they be speaking of him, Amy’s relatives, and her
friends? A novelist who couldn’t write novels; a husband who
couldn’t support his wife and child; a literate who made eager
application for illiterate work at paltry wages—how interesting
it would all sound in humorous gossip! And what hope had he that
things would ever be better with him?
Had he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been
better to have made that one last effort? There came before him a
vision of quiet nooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long
lines of green breakers bursting into foam; he heard the
wave-music, and tasted the briny freshness of the sea-breeze.
Inspiration, after all, would perchance have come to him.
If Amy’s love had but been of more enduring quality; if she had
strengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave
tenderness of an ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things
in her eyes. Her love was dead, and she regarded him as the man
who had spoilt her hopes of happiness. It was only for her own
sake that she urged him to strive on; let his be the toil, that
hers might be the advantage if he succeeded.
‘She would be glad if I were dead. She would be glad.’
He had the conviction of it. Oh yes, she would shed tears; they
come so easily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way;
to be saved from her anomalous position; to see once more a
chance in life; she would welcome it.
But there was no time for brooding. To-day he had to sell all the
things that were superfluous, and to make arrangements for the
removal of his effects to-morrow. By Wednesday night, in
accordance with his agreement, the flat must be free for the new
occupier.
He had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were.
Three would have cost more than he was likely to be able to
afford for a long time. The rent of the two was to be six-and-
sixpence; and how, if Amy had consented to come, could he have
met the expenses of their living out of his weekly twenty-five
shillings? How could he have pretended to do literary work in
such cramped quarters, he who had never been able to write a line
save in strict seclusion? In his despair he had faced the
impossible. Amy had shown more wisdom, though in a spirit of
unkindness.
Towards ten o’clock he was leaving the flat to go and find people
who would purchase his books and old clothing and other
superfluities; but before he could close the door behind him, an
approaching step on the stairs caught his attention. He saw the
shining silk hat of a well-equipped gentleman. It was John Yule.
‘Ha! Good-morning!’ John exclaimed, looking up. ‘A minute or two
and I should have been too late, I see.’
He spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing,
shook hands.
‘Are you obliged to go at once? Or could I have a word with you?’
‘Come in.’
They entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made
no reference to circumstances, but offered a chair, and seated
himself.
‘Have a cigarette?’ said Yule, holding out a box of them.
‘No, thank you; I don’t smoke so early.’
‘Then I’ll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me.
You’re on the point of moving, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Reardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission
of embarrassment. He was not successful, and to his visitor the
tone seemed rather offensive.
‘I suppose you’ll let Amy know your new address?’
‘Certainly. Why should I conceal it?’
‘No, no; I didn’t mean to suggest that. But you might be taking
it for granted that—that the rupture was final, I thought.’
There had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardon
regarded his wife’s brother as rather snobbish and disagreeably
selfish; John Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of
late as a shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John
that his brother-in-law was assuming a manner wholly
unjustifiable, and he had a difficulty in behaving to him with
courtesy. Reardon, on the other hand, felt injured by the turn
his visitor’s remarks were taking, and began to resent the visit
altogether.
‘I take nothing for granted,’ he said coldly. ‘But I’m afraid
nothing is to be gained by a discussion of our difficulties. The
time for that is over.
‘I can’t quite see that. It seems to me that the time has just
come.’
‘Please tell me, to begin with, do you come on Amy’s behalf?’
‘In a way, yes. She hasn’t sent me, but my mother and I are so
astonished at what is happening that it was necessary for one or
other of us to see you.’
‘I think it is all between Amy and myself.’
‘Difficulties between husband and wife are generally best left to
the people themselves, I know. But the fact is, there are
peculiar circumstances in the present case. It can’t be necessary
for me to explain further.’
Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what
Yule referred to, and began to feel the full extent of his
humiliation.
‘You mean, of course—’ he began; but his tongue failed him.
‘Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed that
Amy shall remain with her mother.’
John was perfectly self-possessed; it took much to disturb his
equanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which was in an amber
mouthpiece, and seemed to enjoy its flavour. Reardon found
himself observing the perfection of the young man’s boots and
trousers.
‘That depends entirely on my wife herself;’ he replied
mechanically.
‘How so?’
‘I offer her the best home I can.’
Reardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature, and hated the
well-dressed man who made him feel so.
‘But really, Reardon,’ began the other, uncrossing and recrossing
his legs, ‘do you tell me in seriousness that you expect Amy to
live in such lodgings as you can afford on a pound a week?’
‘I don’t. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I
know it’s impossible, of course.’
Either he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was
hard to hold back the angry words that were on his lips, but he
succeeded, and he was glad he had done so.
‘Then it doesn’t depend on Amy,’ said John.
‘I suppose not.’
‘You see no reason, then, why she shouldn’t live as at present
for an indefinite time?’
To John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon’s changed
tone conveyed simply an impression of bland impudence. He eyed
his brother-in-law rather haughtily.
‘I can only say,’ returned the other, who was become wearily
indifferent, ‘that as soon as I can afford a decent home I shall
give my wife the opportunity of returning to me.’
‘But, pray, when is that likely to be?’
John had passed the bounds; his manner was too frankly
contemptuous.
‘I see no right you have to examine me in this fashion,’ Reardon
exclaimed. ‘With Mrs Yule I should have done my best to be
patient if she had asked these questions; but you are not
justified in putting them, at all events not in this way.’
‘I’m very sorry you speak like this, Reardon,’ said the other,
with calm insolence. ‘It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, one can’t help thinking that you are rather too much at
your ease under the circumstances. It isn’t exactly an everyday
thing, you know, for a man’s wife to be sent back to her own
people—’
Reardon could not endure the sound of these words. He interrupted
hotly.
‘I can’t discuss it with you. You are utterly unable to
comprehend me and my position, utterly! It would be useless to
defend myself. You must take whatever view seems to you the
natural one.’
John, having finished his cigarette, rose.
‘The natural view is an uncommonly disagreeable one,’ he said.
‘However, I have no intention of quarrelling with you. I’ll only
just say that, as I take a share in the expenses of my mother’s
house, this question decidedly concerns me; and I’ll add that I
think it ought to concern you a good deal more than it seems to.’
Reardon, ashamed already of his violence, paused upon these
remarks.
‘It shall,’ he uttered at length, coldly. ‘You have put it
clearly enough to me, and you shan’t have spoken in vain. Is
there anything else you wish to say?’
‘Thank you; I think not.’
They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door
behind his visitor.
He knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium
by Amy’s relatives, to some extent by Amy herself; but hitherto
the reflection that this must always be the case when a man of
his kind is judged by people of the world had strengthened him in
defiance. An endeavour to explain himself would be maddeningly
hopeless; even Amy did not understand aright the troubles through
which his intellectual and moral nature was passing, and to speak
of such experiences to Mrs Yule or to John would be equivalent to
addressing them in alien tongues; he and they had no common
criterion by reference to which he could make himself
intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained the
opposing view of the situation made it impossible for him to
proceed as he had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his
poor lodgings; her mother, her brother, all her advisers would
regard such a thing as out of the question. Very well;
recognising this, he must also recognise his wife’s claim upon
him for material support. It was not in his power to supply her
with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could afford she
should have.
When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of
half an hour ago. After a short search in the direction of
Edgware Road, he found a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he
requested to come as soon as possible to the flat on a matter of
business. An hour later the man kept his appointment. Having
brought him into the study, Reardon said:
‘I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions
that I’ll point out to you’.
‘Very good, sir,’ was the reply. ‘Let’s have a look through the
rooms.’
That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew
well enough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with
the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of
Reardon’s type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar
commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage; not only their ignorance,
but their sensitiveness, makes them ready victims of even the
least subtle man of business. To deal on equal terms with a
person you must be able to assert with calm confidence that you
are not to be cheated; Reardon was too well aware that he would
certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from the higgling of
the market. Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state of mind,
and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details of
this process of ruin.
He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own
use; it would of course be cheaper to take a bare room than
furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of
importance to him. The chair-bedstead, with necessary linen and
blankets, a table, two chairs, a looking-glass—strictly the
indispensable things; no need to complete the list. Then there
were a few valuable wedding-presents, which belonged rather to
Amy than to him; these he would get packed and send to Westbourne
Park.
The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the
vendor.
‘And what may you ask for the lot?’
‘Please to make an offer.’
‘Most of the things has had a good deal of wear—’
‘I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.’
‘Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.’
It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a
man who understood such affairs would have obtained.
‘That’s the most you can give?’
‘Wouldn’t pay me to give a sixpence more. You see—’
He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short.
‘Can you take them away at once?’
‘At wunst? Would two o’clock do?’
‘Yes, it would.’
‘And might you want these other things takin’ anywheres?’
‘Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What
would you do it for?’
This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way.
Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of his books; by
half-past one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two
came the cart that was to take away the furniture, and at four
o’clock nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed
on the morrow.
The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a
week’s rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single
room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an
eating-house and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing
since breakfast. It took him a couple of hours to discover the
ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrow little by-way
running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown a week.
At seven o’clock he sat down in what once was called his study,
and wrote the following letter:
‘Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have
been reminded that your relatives will be at the expense of your
support; it seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now I
send you all the money I can spare at present. You will receive
to-morrow a box containing several things I did not feel
justified in selling. As soon as I begin to have my payment from
Carter, half of it shall be sent to you every week. My address
is: 5 Manville Street, Upper Street, Islington.—EDWIN REARDON.’
He enclosed the money, in notes and gold, and addressed the
envelope to his wife. She must receive it this very night, and he
knew not how to ensure that save by delivering it himself. So he
went to Westbourne Park by train, and walked to Mrs Yule’s house.
At this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window
of the dining-room showed lights within, whilst those of the
drawing-room were in shadow. After a little hesitation he rang
the servants’ bell. When the door opened, he handed his letter to
the girl, and requested that it might be given to Mrs Reardon as
soon as possible. With one more hasty glance at the window—Amy
was perhaps enjoying her unwonted comfort—he walked quickly
away.
As he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his
heart sink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation;
nothing remained upon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he
would carry with him into the wilderness, such few evidences of
civilisation as the poorest cannot well dispense with. Anger,
revolt, a sense of outraged love—all manner of confused passions
had sustained him throughout this day of toil; now he had leisure
to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon his
chair-bedstead, and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body
and mind.
But before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he
could not exert himself to light a fire; there was some food
still in the cupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a
tired labourer, with the plate on his lap, using his fingers and
a knife. What had he to do with delicacies?
He felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffen, what
mortal would give him kindly welcome under any roof? These
stripped rooms were symbolical of his life; losing money, he had
lost everything. ‘Be thankful that you exist, that these morsels
of food are still granted you. Man has a right to nothing in this
world that he cannot pay for. Did you imagine that love was an
exception? Foolish idealist! Love is one of the first things to
be frightened away by poverty. Go and live upon your
twelve-and-sixpence a week, and on your memories of the past.’
In this room he had sat with Amy on their return from the wedding
holiday. ‘Shall you always love me as you do now?’—’For ever!
for ever!’—’Even if I disappointed you? If I failed?’—’How
could that affect my love?’ The voices seemed to be lingering
still, in a sad, faint echo, so short a time it was since those
words were uttered.
His own fault. A man has no business to fail; least of all can he
expect others to have time to look back upon him or pity him if
he sink under the stress of conflict. Those behind will trample
over his body; they can’t help it; they themselves are borne
onwards by resistless pressure.
He slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as
it revealed his desolation.
The morning’s post brought him a large heavy envelope, the aspect
of which for a moment puzzled him. But he recognised the
handwriting, and understood. The editor of The Wayside, in a
pleasantly-written note, begged to return the paper on Pliny’s
Letters which had recently been submitted to him; he was sorry it
did not strike him as quite so interesting as the other
contributions from Reardon’s pen.
This was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected
piece of writing without distress; he even laughed at the
artistic completeness of the situation. The money would have been
welcome, but on that very account he might have known it would
not come.
The cart that was to transfer his property to the room in
Islington arrived about mid-day. By that time he had dismissed
the last details of business in relation to the flat, and was
free to go back to the obscure world whence he had risen. He felt
that for two years and a half he had been a pretender. It was not
natural to him to live in the manner of people who enjoy an
assured income; he belonged to the class of casual wage-earners.
Back to obscurity!
Carrying a bag which contained a few things best kept in his own
care, he went by train to King’s Cross, and thence walked up
Pentonville Hill to Upper Street and his own little by-way.
Manville Street was not unreasonably squalid; the house in which
he had found a home was not alarming in its appearance, and the
woman who kept it had an honest face. Amy would have shrunk in
apprehension, but to one who had experience of London garrets
this was a rather favourable specimen of its kind. The door
closed more satisfactorily than poor Biffen’s, for instance, and
there were not many of those knot-holes in the floor which gave
admission to piercing little draughts; not a pane of the window
was cracked, not one. A man might live here comfortably—could
memory be destroyed.
‘There’s a letter come for you,’ said the landlady as she
admitted him. ‘You’ll find it on your mantel.’
He ascended hastily. The letter must be from Amy, as no one else
knew his address. Yes, and its contents were these:
‘As you have really sold the furniture, I shall accept half this
money that you send. I must buy clothing for myself and Willie.
But the other ten pounds I shall return to you as soon as
possible. As for your offer of half what you are to receive from
Mr Carter, that seems to me ridiculous; in any case, I cannot
take it. If you seriously abandon all further hope from
literature, I think it is your duty to make every effort to
obtain a position suitable to a man of your education.—AMY
REARDON.’
Doubtless Amy thought it was her duty to write in this way. Not a
word of sympathy; he must understand that no one was to blame but
himself; and that her hardships were equal to his own.
In the bag he had brought with him there were writing materials.
Standing at the mantelpiece, he forthwith penned a reply to this
letter:
‘The money is for your support, as far as it will go. If it comes
back to me I shall send it again. If you refuse to make use of
it, you will have the kindness to put it aside and consider it as
belonging to Willie. The other money of which I spoke will be
sent to you once a month. As our concerns are no longer between
us alone, I must protect myself against anyone who would be
likely to accuse me of not giving you what I could afford. For
your advice I thank you, but remember that in withdrawing from me
your affection you have lost all right to offer me counsel.’
He went out and posted this at once.
By three o’clock the furniture of his room was arranged. He had
not kept a carpet; that was luxury, and beyond his due. His score
of volumes must rank upon the mantelpiece; his clothing must be
kept in the trunk. Cups, plates, knives, forks, and spoons would
lie in the little open cupboard, the lowest section of which was
for his supply of coals. When everything was in order he drew
water from a tap on the landing and washed himself; then, with
his bag, went out to make purchases. A loaf of bread, butter,
sugar, condensed milk; a remnant of tea he had brought with him.
On returning, he lit as small a fire as possible, put on his
kettle, and sat down to meditate.
How familiar it all was to him! And not unpleasant, for it
brought back the days when he had worked to such good purpose. It
was like a restoration of youth.
Of Amy he would not think. Knowing his bitter misery, she could
write to him in cold, hard words, without a touch even of womanly
feeling. If ever they were to meet again, the advance must be
from her side. He had no more tenderness for her until she strove
to revive it.
Next morning he called at the hospital to see Carter. The
secretary’s peculiar look and smile seemed to betray a knowledge
of what had been going on since Sunday, and his first words
confirmed this impression of Reardon’s.
‘You have removed, I hear?’
‘Yes; I had better give you my new address.’
Reardon’s tone was meant to signify that further remark on the
subject would be unwelcome. Musingly, Carter made a note of the
address.
‘You still wish to go on with this affair?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Come and have some lunch with me, then, and afterwards we’ll go
to the City Road and talk things over on the spot.’
The vivacious young man was not quite so genial as of wont, but
he evidently strove to show that the renewal of their relations
as employer and clerk would make no difference in the friendly
intercourse which had since been established; the invitation to
lunch evidently had this purpose.
‘I suppose,’ said Carter, when they were seated in a restaurant,
‘you wouldn’t object to anything better, if a chance turned up?’
‘I should take it, to be sure.’
‘But you don’t want a job that would occupy all your time? You’re
going on with writing, of course?’
‘Not for the present, I think.’
‘Then you would like me to keep a look-out? I haven’t anything in
view—nothing whatever. But one hears of things sometimes.’
‘I should be obliged to you if you could help me to anything
satisfactory.’
Having brought himself to this admission, Reardon felt more at
ease. To what purpose should he keep up transparent pretences? It
was manifestly his duty to earn as much money as he could, in
whatever way. Let the man of letters be forgotten; he was seeking
for remunerative employment, just as if he had never written a
line.
Amy did not return the ten pounds, and did not write again. So,
presumably, she would accept the moiety of his earnings; he was
glad of it. After paying half-a-crown for rent, there would be
left ten shillings. Something like three pounds that still
remained to him he would not reckon; this must be for casualties.
Half-a-sovereign was enough for his needs; in the old times he
had counted it a competency which put his mind quite at rest.
The day came, and he entered upon his duties in City Road. It
needed but an hour or two, and all the intervening time was
cancelled; he was back once more in the days of no reputation, a
harmless clerk, a decent wage-earner.
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