New Grub Street (53 page)

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 false such pictures are. Think of the very words
"novel," "romance"—what do they mean but 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 use is 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 the parting 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
acerbity in a character which had displayed so much sweetness, so
much womanly grace. Moreover, it was arrest 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
desoeuvrement 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 palate. She
read a good deal of that kind of literature which may be defined as
specialism popularised; 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 Mudie's, for the new number of some periodical
which contained an appetising title. As it was a 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 Milvain, 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 Milvain walked up.

He was armed cap-a-pie in the fashions of suave 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 her 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 Yule is well?'

'Quite, 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 your 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-o'-the-Wisp?'

'Oh yes. And I think I can generally recognise your hand.'

They 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
a 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 Yule's?'

'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 on friendly 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 Wattleborough correspondent, even if no one
in London had told him.

'Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin
Marian?' 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 delayed a 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 Biffen get on?'

'I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an
interminable novel, which no one will publish when it's done.
Whelpdale 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; Marian.'

They were passing Bedford Square. Amy glanced at the trees, now
almost bare of 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.

'Marian 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
criticising 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 throws 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
Marian. I haven't seen her for years and years. She may be
admirably suited to you.'

'Depend upon it, I think so.'

'She's 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 Marian 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 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 they took leave of each other.

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 in the icy water. In fact, I have had
just the same feeling on shipboard. I remember waking up midway
between Corfu and Brindisi, on that shaky 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 sousing
into the black depths.'

'Don't talk, my boy,' advised Biffen. '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, an indisposition to exert
himself, and a complete disregard of the course that 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 secretaryship 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 was to go over to Croydon and see the
institution.

One evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street
and greeted his friend 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 to-day,' 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 from 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?'