New Grub Street (52 page)

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 Biffen,
whom he had visited on the Monday. 'Come and see me if you can. I
am down with a 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.'

On her return from church that Sunday Mrs Edmund Yule 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 Yule never ceased to grumble at his
sister's permanence in the house, especially since he had learnt
that the money sent by Reardon each month was not made use of; why
it should not be applied for household expenses passed 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 twelve shillings a week or twelve pence? 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 Yule could not express her disappointment and dismay.

'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 seventy-five
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 wild talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and
for the rest of the day she kept apart in her own room. On the
morrow Mrs Yule 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 but 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 Yule 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 their relative's death at
Wattleborough.

This threw Mrs Yule into a commotion. At first she decided to
accompany her son and be present at the funeral; after changing her
mind twenty 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 favourite
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'll 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; their 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 gruffly to his mother.
'There's no reason whatever.'

Mrs Yule 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 joking, ridiculous boy!'

'Never felt less disposed to, I assure you.'

After staring out of the window for a minute or two, he at
length informed Amy of the extent to which she profited by her
uncle's decease, 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 her 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 Yule. '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 dare say the old curmudgeon destroyed a former one.

'What a splendid 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 comment 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 the deuce he should have left you so much in any case is
more than I can understand,' growled her brother. 'What's the use
to me of a paltry thousand or two? It isn't enough to invest; isn't
enough to do anything with.'

'You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five
thousand good for something,' said Mrs Yule. '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 cab-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. Too affectionate 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 caused 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 twenty-four 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
healthful 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 ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay before
her! Ten thousand pounds sounded well, but what did it represent in
reality? A poor four hundred a year, perhaps; mere 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 eleven and
twelve 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 a 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 civilisation. What would
have been thought twenty 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 does 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 it is 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 for getting that kind of reform? I would
subscribe fifty 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 Markland's 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 Balzac's, for instance. I have just been reading his
"Cousin Pons," 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 are 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.'