New Grub Street (20 page)

At the end of November, Reardon said to his wife one
morning:

'To-morrow I finish the second volume.'

'And in a week,' she replied, 'we shan't have a shilling
left.'

He had refrained from making inquiries, and Amy had forborne to
tell him the state of things, lest it should bring him to a dead
stop in his writing. But now they must needs discuss their
position.

'In three weeks I can get to the end,' said Reardon, with
unnatural calmness. 'Then I will go personally to the publishers,
and beg them to advance me something on the manuscript before they
have read it.'

'Couldn't you do that with the first two volumes?'

'No, I can't; indeed I can't. The other thing will be bad
enough; but to beg on an incomplete book, and such a book—I
can't!'

There were drops on his forehead.

'They would help you if they knew,' said Amy in a low voice.

'Perhaps; I can't say. They can't help every poor devil. No; I
will sell some books. I can pick out fifty or sixty that I shan't
much miss.'

Amy knew what a wrench this would be. The imminence of distress
seemed to have softened her.

'Edwin, let me take those two volumes to the publishers, and
ask—'

'Heavens! no. That's impossible. Ten to one you will be told
that my work is of such doubtful value that they can't offer even a
guinea till the whole book has been considered. I can't allow you
to go, dearest. This morning I'll choose some books that I can
spare, and after dinner I'll ask a man to come and look at them.
Don't worry yourself; I can finish in three weeks, I'm sure I can.
If I can get you three or four pounds you could make it do,
couldn't you?'

'Yes.'

She averted her face as she spoke.

'You shall have that.' He still spoke very quietly. 'If the
books won't bring enough, there's my watch—oh, lots of things.'

He turned abruptly away, and Amy went on with her household
work.

It was natural that Amy should hint dissatisfaction with the
loneliness in which her days were mostly spent. She had never lived
in a large circle of acquaintances; the narrowness of her mother's
means restricted the family to intercourse with a few old friends
and such new ones as were content with teacup entertainment; but
her tastes were social, and the maturing process which followed
upon her marriage made her more conscious of this than she had been
before. Already she had allowed her husband to understand that one
of her strongest motives in marrying him was the belief that he
would achieve distinction. At the time she doubtless thought of his
coming fame only—or principally—as it concerned their relations to
each other; her pride in him was to be one phase of her love. Now
she was well aware that no degree of distinction in her husband
would be of much value to her unless she had the pleasure of
witnessing its effect upon others; she must shine with reflected
light before an admiring assembly.

The more conscious she became of this requirement of her nature,
the more clearly did she perceive that her hopes had been founded
on an error. Reardon would never be a great man; he would never
even occupy a prominent place in the estimation of the public. The
two things, Amy knew, might be as different as light and darkness;
but in the grief of her disappointment she would rather have had
him flare into a worthless popularity than flicker down into total
extinction, which it almost seemed was to be his fate.

She knew so well how 'people' were talking of him and her. Even
her unliterary acquaintances understood that Reardon's last novel
had been anything but successful, and they must of course ask each
other how the Reardons were going to live if the business of
novel-writing proved unremunerative. Her pride took offence at the
mere thought of such conversations. Presently she would become an
object of pity; there would be talk of 'poor Mrs Reardon.' It was
intolerable.

So during the last half year she had withheld as much as
possible from the intercourse which might have been one of her
chief pleasures. And to disguise the true cause she made pretences
which were a satire upon her state of mind—alleging that she had
devoted herself to a serious course of studies, that the care of
house and child occupied all the time she could spare from her
intellectual pursuits. The worst of it was, she had little faith in
the efficacy of these fictions; in uttering them she felt an
unpleasant warmth upon her cheeks, and it was not difficult to
detect a look of doubt in the eyes of the listener. She grew angry
with herself for being dishonest, and with her husband for making
such dishonesty needful.

The female friend with whom she had most trouble was Mrs Carter.
You remember that on the occasion of Reardon's first meeting with
his future wife, at the Grosvenor Gallery, there were present his
friend Carter and a young lady who was shortly to bear the name of
that spirited young man. The Carters had now been married about a
year; they lived in Bayswater, and saw much of a certain world
which imitates on a lower plane the amusements and affectations of
society proper. Mr Carter was still secretary to the hospital where
Reardon had once earned his twenty shillings a week, but by
voyaging in the seas of charitable enterprise he had come upon
supplementary sources of income; for instance, he held the post of
secretary to the Barclay Trust, a charity whose moderate funds were
largely devoted to the support of gentlemen engaged in
administering it. This young man, with his air of pleasing
vivacity, had early ingratiated himself with the kind of people who
were likely to be of use to him; he had his reward in the shape of
offices which are only procured through private influence. His wife
was a good-natured, lively, and rather clever girl; she had a
genuine regard for Amy, and much respect for Reardon. Her ambition
was to form a circle of distinctly intellectual acquaintances, and
she was constantly inviting the Reardons to her house; a real live
novelist is not easily drawn into the world where Mrs Carter had
her being, and it annoyed her that all attempts to secure Amy and
her husband for five-o'clock teas and small parties had of late
failed.

On the afternoon when Reardon had visited a second-hand
bookseller with a view of raising money—he was again shut up in his
study, dolorously at work—Amy was disturbed by the sound of a
visitor's rat-tat; the little servant went to the door, and
returned followed by Mrs Carter.

Under the best of circumstances it was awkward to receive any
but intimate friends during the hours when Reardon sat at his desk.
The little dining-room (with its screen to conceal the kitchen
range) offered nothing more than homely comfort; and then the
servant had to be disposed of by sending her into the bedroom to
take care of Willie. Privacy, in the strict sense, was impossible,
for the servant might listen at the door (one room led out of the
other) to all the conversation that went on; yet Amy could not
request her visitors to speak in a low tone. For the first year
these difficulties had not been felt; Reardon made a point of
leaving the front room at his wife's disposal from three to six; it
was only when dread of the future began to press upon him that he
sat in the study all day long. You see how complicated were the
miseries of the situation; one torment involved another, and in
every quarter subjects of discontent were multiplied.

Mrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did
not regard her as strictly an intimate. They addressed each other
by their Christian names, and conversed without ceremony; but Amy
was always dissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst
with laughter and animated talk into this abode of concealed
poverty. Edith was not the kind of person with whom one can
quarrel; she had a kind heart, and was never disagreeably
pretentious. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy would have given
frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been glad to
accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at present
it did her harm to come in contact with Mrs Carter; it made her
envious, cold to her husband, resentful against fate.

'Why can't she leave me alone?' was the thought that rose in her
mind as Edith entered. 'I shall let her see that I don't want her
here.'

'Your husband at work?' Edith asked, with a glance in the
direction of the study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and
greetings.

'Yes, he is busy.'

'And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out;
an afternoon of sunshine isn't to be neglected at this time of
year.'

'Is there sunshine?' Amy inquired coldly.

'Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven't noticed it? What a
comical person you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over head
and ears in books all day. How is Willie?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'Mayn't I see him?'

'If you like.'

Amy stepped to the bedroom door and bade the servant bring
Willie for exhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own,
always showed the most flattering admiration of this infant; it was
so manifestly sincere that the mother could not but be moved to a
grateful friendliness whenever she listened to its expression. Even
this afternoon the usual effect followed when Edith had made a
pretty and tender fool of herself for several minutes. Amy bade the
servant make tea.

At this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon
looked in.

'Well, if this isn't marvellous!' cried Edith. 'I should as soon
have expected the heavens to fall!'

'As what?' asked Reardon, with a pale smile.

'As you to show yourself when I am here.'

'I should like to say that I came on purpose to see you, Mrs
Carter, but it wouldn't be true. I'm going out for an hour, so that
you can take possession of the other room if you like, Amy.'

'Going out?' said Amy, with a look of surprise.

'Nothing—nothing. I mustn't stay.'

He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and
withdrew. The door of the flat was heard to close after him.

'Let us go into the study, then,' said Amy, again in rather a
cold voice.

On Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith,
approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly
genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with a
laugh to her friend.

'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people
one has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have
been tempted to try if I couldn't write a story.'

'Have you?'

'And I'm sure I don't know how you can resist the temptation. I
feel sure you could write books almost as clever as your
husband's.'

'I have no intention of trying.'

'You don't seem very well to-day, Amy.'

'Oh, I think I am as well as usual.'

She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a
standstill, and this darkened her humour again.

'One of my reasons for corning,' said Edith, 'was to beg and
entreat and implore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next
Wednesday. Now, don't put on such a severe face! Are you engaged
that evening?'

'Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can't possibly leave his
work.'

'But for one poor evening! It's such ages since we saw you.'

'I'm very sorry. I don't think we shall ever be able to accept
invitations in future.'

Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute
ago, no such definite declaration was in her mind.

'Never?' exclaimed Edith. 'But why? Whatever do you mean?'

'We find that social engagements consume too much time,' Amy
replied, her explanation just as much of an impromptu as the
announcement had been. 'You see, one must either belong to society
or not. Married people can't accept an occasional invitation from
friends and never do their social duty in return.

We have decided to withdraw altogether—at all events for the
present. I shall see no one except my relatives.'

Edith listened with a face of astonishment.

'You won't even see ME?' she exclaimed.

'Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am
ashamed to ask you to come here when I can never return your
visits.'

'Oh, please don't put it in that way! But it seems so very
strange.'

Edith could not help conjecturing the true significance of this
resolve. But, as is commonly the case with people in easy
circumstances, she found it hard to believe that her friends were
so straitened as to have a difficulty in supporting the ordinary
obligations of a civilised state.

'I know how precious your husband's time is,' she added, as if
to remove the effect of her last remark. 'Surely, there's no harm
in my saying—we know each other well enough—you wouldn't think it
necessary to devote an evening to entertaining us just because you
had given us the pleasure of your company. I put it very stupidly,
but I'm sure you understand me, Amy. Don't refuse just to come to
our house now and then.'

'I'm afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith.'

'But do you think this is a WISE thing to do?'

'Wise?'

'You know what you once told me, about how necessary it was for
a novelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr Reardon do this
if he shuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he would
find it necessary to make new acquaintances.'

'As I said,' returned Amy, 'it won't be always like this. For
the present, Edwin has quite enough "material."'

She spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses
for the sacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped the
tea which had been offered her, and for a minute kept silence.

'When will Mr Reardon's next book be published?' she asked at
length.