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 Marylebone Road, then north-westwards 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 waited 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 conciliatory, 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 that 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 am glad to hear that a better prospect offers for you.'
He did not sit down, and was holding 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 offence 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 language of the other that a revulsion of feeling undid all the more hopeful effects of their long severance. On entering, 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 this 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? None the less such attire degraded him in her eyes; it symbolised 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 harmonised 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 this 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 demoralising 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 you 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. Please 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 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 had never entertained for a moment the supposition that his wits were unsettled, but none the less 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 behaviour 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 mean it 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 women 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. How 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 refused 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 are 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 light-heartedly as you do, Amy?'
'I am far from taking it light-heartedly.'
'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 behaviour to you?'
'Remember how you have been speaking to me.'
'And 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 women 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, instead of 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 wrung 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 with any hope?'
He stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his fate.
'I have said 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 cheerless plight 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 influenza 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 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.'
CHAPTER XXVI. MARRIED WOMAN'S PROPERTY
On her return from church that Sunday Mrs Edmund Yule was anxious to learn the resu
lt 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.'
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