He asked uneasily. No, not exactly this, but I know she will help us in this way. He had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face laid against hers.  It may mean that we are never to live as husband and wife again. But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on here till we have no money, what's before us then? Wretched lodgings at the best, and I am afraid to think of that. I can't trust myself if that should come to pass. What do you mean? He asked anxiously.  You know I have told you that before, Edwin. But you would never forget that you were my wife. I hope not, but I can't think of it. I can't face it. That would be the very worst that can befall us, and we are going to try our utmost to escape from it. Was there ever a man who did as much as you have done in literature and then sank into hopeless poverty? Oh, many. But at your age, I mean, surely not at your age. I am afraid there have been such poor fellows. Think how often one hears of hopeful beginnings, new reputations, and then you hear no more. Of course, it generally means that the man has gone into a different career, but sometimes, sometimes— What? The abyss, he pointed downward, penury and despair and a miserable death. Oh, but those men haven't a wife and child. They would struggle. Darling, they do struggle, but it's as if an ever-increasing weight were round their necks. It drags them lower and lower. The world has no pity on a man who can't do or produce something at things worth money. You may be a divine poet, and if some good fellow doesn't take pity on you, you will starve by the roadside. Society is as blind and brutal as fate. I have no right to complain of my own ill fortune. It's my own fault. In a sense, that I can't continue as well as I began. If I could write books as good as the early ones, I should earn money. For all that, it's hard that I must be kicked aside as worthless just because I don't know a trade. It shan't be. I have only to look into your face to know that you will succeed after all. Yours is the kind of face that people come to know in portraits. He kissed her hair, her eyes, and her mouth. How well I remember you're saying that before. Why have you grown so good to me all at once, my Amy? Hearing you speak like that, I feel there's nothing beyond my reach. But I dread to go away from you. If I find that it is hopeless, if I am alone somewhere and know that the effort is all in vain, then, well, I can leave you free. If I can't support you, it will be only just that I should give you back your freedom. I don't understand. She raised herself and looked into his eyes. We won't talk of that. If you bid me go on with the struggle, I shall do so. Amy had hid in her face and lay silently in his arms for a minute or two. Then she murmured, It's so cold in here and so late, come. So early. There goes three o'clock. The next day they talked much of this new project. As there was sunshine, Amy accompanied her husband for his walk in the afternoon. It was long since they had been out together. An open carriage that passed, followed by two young girls on horseback, gave a familiar direction to Reardon's thoughts. If one were as rich as those people, they passed so close to us, they see us, and we see them, but the distance between is infinity. They don't belong to the same world as we poor riches. They see everything in a different light. They have powers which would seem supernatural if we were suddenly endowed with them. Of course, assented his companion with a sigh. Just fancy, if one got up in the morning with a thought that no reasonable desire that occurred to one throughout the day need remain ungratified, and that it would be the same any day and every day to the end of one's life. Look at those houses, every detail, within and without, luxurious, to have such a home as that. And they are empty creatures who live there. They do live, Amy, at all events. Whatever may be their faculties, they have all free scope. I have often stood staring at houses like these until I couldn't believe that the people owning them were mere human beings like myself. The power of money is so hard to realize, one who has never had it marvels at the completeness with which it transforms every detail of life. Compare what we call our home with that of rich people. It moves one to scornful laughter. I have no sympathy with the stoical point of view. Between wealth and poverty is just the difference between the whole man and the maimed. If my lower limbs are paralyzed, I may still be able to think, but then there is such a thing and life is walking. As a poor devil, I may live nobly, but one happens to be made with faculties of enjoyment, and those have to fall into atrophy. To be sure, most rich people don't understand their happiness. If they did, they would move and talk like gods, which indeed they are. Amy's brow was shadowed. A wise man, in Reardon's position, would not have chosen the subject to dilate upon. The difference, he went on, between the man with money and the man without is simply this. The one thinks, how shall I use my life? And the other, how shall I keep myself alive? A physiologist ought to be able to discover some curious distinction between the brain of a person who has never given a thought to the means of substance, and that of one who has never known a day free from such cares. There must be some special cerebral development representing the mental anguish kept up by poverty. I should say, put in Amy, that it affects every function of the brain. It isn't a special point of suffering, but a misery that colors every thought. True, can I think of a single subject in all the sphere of my experience, without the consciousness that I see it through the medium of poverty? I have no enjoyment which isn't tainted by that thought, and I can suffer no pain which it doesn't increase. The curse of poverty is to the modern world, just what that of slavery was to the ancient. Rich and destitute stand to each other as freemen and bond. You remember the line of Homer I have often quoted about the demoralizing effect of enslavement. Poverty degrades in the same way. It has had its effect upon me, I know that too well, said Amy, with bitter frankness. Reared and glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he could not say what was in his thoughts. He worked on it at his story, before he had reached the end of it. Margaret Holm was published, and one day arrived a parcel containing the six copies to which an author is traditionally entitled. Reared and was not so old in authorship that he could open the packet, without a slight flutter of his pulse. The book was tastefully got up, Amy exclaimed with pleasure as she caught sight of the cover and lettering. It may succeed, Edwin, it doesn't look like a book that fails, does it? She laughed at her own childishness, but Reared and had opened one of the volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter. Good God! he cried, what hellish torment it was to write that page. I did it one morning, when the fog was so thick that I had to light the lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the words, and to think that people will skim over it without a suspicion of what it cost the writer. What excruble style! A pot boy could write better narrative. Who are to have copies? No one, if I can help it. But I suppose your mother will expect one. And Milvane? I suppose so, he replied indifferently, but not unless he asks for it. Poor old Biffin, of course, though it'll make him despise me, then one for ourselves. That leaves two, to light the fire with. We have been rather short of fire paper, since we couldn't afford our daily newspaper. Will you let me give one to Mrs. Carter? As you please. He took one set, and added it to the row of his productions, which stood on a topmost shelf. Amy laid her hand upon his shoulder, and contemplated the effect of this addition. The works of Edwin Reardon, she said with a smile. The work at all events, rather a different thing, unfortunately. Amy, if only I were back at the time when I wrote, on neutral ground, and yet had you with me. How full my mind was in those days! Then I had only to look, and I saw something. Now I strain my eyes, but can make out nothing more than nebulous grotesques. I used to sit down knowing so well what I had to say. Now I strive to invent, and never come at anything. Suppose you pick up a needle with warm supple fingers. Try to do it when your hand is stiff and numb with cold. There's the difference between my manner of work in those days and what it is now. But you are going to get back your health. You will write better than ever. We shall see. Of course there was a great deal of miserable struggle even then, but I remember it as insignificant compared with the hours of contented work. I seldom did anything in the mornings except think and prepare. Towards evening I felt myself getting ready, and at last I sat down with the first lines buzzing in my head, and I used to read a great deal at the same time. Whilst I was writing on neutral ground I went solidly through the Divina Comedia, a canto each day. Very often I wrote till after midnight, but occasionally I got my quantum finished much earlier, and then I used to treat myself to a ramble about the streets. I can recall exactly the places where some of my best ideas came to me. You remember the scene in Prender Gas Lodgings? That flashed on me late one night as I was turning out of Lyschester Square into the slum that leads to Clare Market. Ah, how well I remember! And I went home to my garret in a state of delightful fever and scribbled notes furiously before going to bed. Don't trouble, it'll all come back to you. But in those days I hadn't to think of money. I could look forward and see provision for my needs. I never asked myself what I should get for the book. I assure you that never came into my head, never. The work was done for its own sake. No hurry to finish it. If I felt that I wasn't up to the mark I just waited till the better mood returned. On neutral ground took me seven months. Now I have to write three volumes in nine weeks, with the lash stinging on my back if I miss a day. He brooded for a little. I suppose there must be some rich man somewhere who has read one or two of my books with a certain interest. If only I could encounter him and tell him plainly what a cursed state I am in, perhaps he will help me to some means of earning a couple of pounds a week. One has heard of such things. In the old days. Yes, I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn't so easily meet with his Gilman nowadays. Well, I am not a Coleridge, and I don't ask to be lodged under any man's roof. But if I could earn money enough to leave me good long evenings, unspoilt by the fear of the workhouse. Amy turned away and presently went to look after her little boy. A few days after this they had a visit from Milvane. He came about ten o'clock in the evening. I'm not going to stay, he announced, but where's my copy of Margaret Home? I am to have one, I suppose. I have no particular desire that you should read it, returned Reardon. But I have read it, my dear fellow, got it from the library on the day of publication. I had a suspicion that you wouldn't send me a copy. But I must possess your opera omnia. Here it is. Hide it away somewhere. You may as well sit down for a few minutes. I confess I should like to talk about the book, if you don't mind. It isn't so utterly and damnably bad as you make out, you know. The misfortune was that you had to make three volumes of it. If I had to leave to cut it down to one, it would do you credit. The motive is good enough. Yes, just good enough to show how badly it's managed. Milvane began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of the three-volume system.  One might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic literary paper. By the by, why doesn't such a thing exist? A weekly paper, treating of things and people, literary, in a facetious spirit. It would be caviar to the general, but might be supported, I should think. The editor would probably be assassinated, though. For anyone in my position, said Reardon, how is it possible to abandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment, and author of moderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel. I mean the man who is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who gets from one to two hundred pounds for it, but he would have to produce four one-volume novels to obtain the same income, and I doubt whether he could get so many published within the twelve months. And here comes in the benefit of the libraries. From the commercial point of view, the libraries are indispensable. Do you suppose the public would support the present number of novelists if each book had to be purchased? A sudden change to that system would throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work. But there's no reason why the libraries shouldn't circulate novels in one volume. Prophets would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum subscription. Well, to go to the concrete. What about your own one-volume? All but done. And you'll offer it to Jedwood. Go and see him personally. He's a very decent fellow, I believe. Milvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to sit and talk at large through a whole evening were no more. Partly because of his diminished leisure, but also for a less simple reason—the growth of something like a strangement between him and Reardon. You didn't mention your plans, said Amy, when the visitor had been gone some time. No. Reardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no further remark. The result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons called to make inspection. One of them, a man of military appearance, showed himself anxious to come to terms. He was willing to take the tenement from the next quarter-day—June—but wished, if possible, to enter upon possession sooner than that. "'Nothing could be better,' said Amy, and calloliquy with her husband. If he will pay for the extra time, we shall be only too glad.' Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to regard the experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart sank at the thought of parting from Amy. "'You are very anxious to get rid of me,' he answered, trying to smile. "'Yes, I am,' she exclaimed, but simply for your own good, as you know very well. "'Suppose I can't sell this book. You will have a few pounds. Send your Pliny article to the wayside. If you come to an end of all your money, mother shall lend you some. I am not very likely to do much work in that case. "'Oh, but you will sell the book. You'll get twenty pounds for it, and that alone would keep you for three months. Think, three months of the best part of the year at the seaside. Oh, you will do wonders.' The furniture was to be housed at Mrs. Ewell's. Neither of them dare speak of selling it. That would have sounded too ominous. As for the locality of Reardon's retreat, Amy herself had suggested worthing, which she knew from a visit a few years ago. The advantages were its proximity to London, and the likelihood that very cheap lodgings could be found either in the town or near it. One room would suffice for the hapless author, and his expenses, beyond a trifling rent, would be confined to mere food. Oh, yes, he might manage unconsiderably less than a pound a week. Amy was in much better spirits than for a long time. She appeared to have convinced herself that there was no doubt of the issue of this perilous scheme, that her husband would write a notable book, receive a satisfactory price for it, and so re-establish their home. Yet her moods varied greatly. After all, there was delay in the letting of the flat, and this caused her annoyance. It was whilst the negotiations were still pending that she made her call upon Maude and Dora Milvain. Reardon did not know of her intention to visit them until it had been carried out. She mentioned what she had done in almost a casual manner. I had to get it over, she said, when Reardon exhibited surprise, and I don't think I made a very favorable impression. You told them, I suppose, what we are going to do? No, I didn't say a word of it. But why not? It can't be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard of it already, I should think, from your mother. From mother? But it's the rarest thing for him to go there. Do you imagine he is a constant visitor? I thought it better to say nothing until the thing is actually done. Who knows what may happen? She was in a strange, nervous state, and Reardon regarded her uneasily. He talked very little in these days, and passed hours in dark reverie. His book was finished, and he awaited the publisher's decision. CHAPTER 16 REJECTION One of Reardon's minor worries at this time was the fear that by chance he might come upon a review of Margaret Home. Since the publication of his first book, he had avoided, as far as possible, all knowledge of what the critics had to say about him. His nervous temperament could not bear the agitation of reading these remarks, which, however inept, define an author and his work to so many people incapable of judging for themselves. No man or woman could tell him anything in the way of praise or blame, which he did not already know quite well. Commendation was pleasant, but it so often aimed to miss, and censure was for the most part so unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel, he dreaded the sight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty knife. The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their expression in journalistic phrase would disturb his mind with evil rancor. No one would have insight enough to appreciate the nature and cause of his book's demerits. Every comment would be wide of the mark. Sneer, ridicule, trie-objection would but madden him with a sense of injustice. His position was illogical, one result of the moral weakness which was allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside the worthlessness of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated book has, of course, nothing to do with its author's state of mind and body any more than with the condition of his purse. Reardon would have granted this, but he could not command his emotions. He was in passionate revolt against the base necessities which compelled him to put forth work in no way representing his healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had written this book, but his accursed poverty, to assail him as the author was, in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap a notice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made his blood boil with a fierceness of hatred, only possible to him in a profoundly morbid condition. He could not steady his hand for half an hour after. Yet this particular critic only said what was quite true, that the novel contained not a single striking scene and not one living character. Reardon had expressed himself about it in almost identical terms. But he saw himself in the position of one sickly and all but destitute man against a relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeared dastardly. He could have cried coward to the writer who wounded him. The would-be sensational story, which was now in Mr. Jedwood's hands, had perhaps more merit than Margaret home. Its brevity and the fact that nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events made it not unreadable. But Reardon thought of it with humiliation. If it were published as his next work, it would afford final proof to such sympathetic readers, as he might still retain, that he had hopelessly written himself out and was now endeavouring to adapt himself to an inferior public. In spite of his dire necessities, he now and then hoped that Jedwood might refuse the thing. At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four months he was about to spend in retirement. But such impulses were the mere outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in himself under present conditions. The permanence of his sufferings would mean the sure destruction of powers he still possessed, though they were not at his command. Yet he believed that his mind was made up as to the advisability of trying this last resource. He was impatient for the day of departure, and in the interval merely killed time as best he might. He could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his next book. The delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for the barrenness of day after day. His pliny article had been dispatched to the wayside and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble himself about this or other details. It was as though his mind could do nothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution. With the steps toward that final stage he seemed to have little concern. One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffin, whom he had not seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copy of Margaret Home, left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffin resided in Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the Dim District, which lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. Unknocking at the door of the lodging house, Reardon learned that his friend was at home. He ascended to the third story and tapped at a door which allowed rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound of voices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffin was engaged with the pupil.  I'll call again later. No need to go away, replied Biffin, coming forward to shake hands. Take a book for a few minutes. Mr. Baker won't mind. It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodger could only just stand to operate with safety. Perhaps three inches intervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy, cobwebby.  Elsewhere the chinky boards were unconcealed. The furniture consisted of a round table, which kept such imperfect balance on its central support that the lamp entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position. Of three small cane-bottom chairs, a small wash handstand with sundry root appurtenances, and a chair bedstead which the tenon opened at the hour of repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at present kept in a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few hundred battered volumes were arranged some on the floor and some on a rough chest. The weather was too characteristic of an English spring to make an empty grate agreeable to the eye. But Biffin held it in axiom that fires were unseasonable after the first of May. The individual referred to as Mr. Baker, who sat at the table in the attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired young man of two or three and twenty, judging from his weather-beaten cheeks and huge hands, as well as from the garpy war. One would have presumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was something of the riverside about him. He might be a dockman, or even a bargeman. He looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty. You endeavour to write in shorter sentences, said Biffin, who sat down by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume. This isn't bad, it isn't bad at all, I assure you, but you have put all you had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to have made about a dozen. There it is, sir, there it is, exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiry hair. I can't break it up, the thought's come in a lump, if I may say so. To break it up, there's the art of composition. Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffin, whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with an explanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling. Mr. Baker is preparing for the examination of the Outdoor Customs Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, you know, that isn't quite such a simple matter as some people think. Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile. I can make headway with the other things, sir," he said, striking the table lightly with his clenched fist. There's handwriting, there's orthography, there's arithmetic, I'm not afraid of one of them, as Mr. Biffin'll tell you, sir. But when it comes to composition, that brings out the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you. You're not the only man in that case, Mr. Baker," replied Reardon. It's thought a tough job in general, is it, sir? It is indeed. Two hundred marks for composition, continued the man. Now, how many would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr. Biffin? Well, well, I can't exactly say, but you improve, you improve decidedly. Peg away for another week or two. Oh, don't fear me, sir, I'm not easily beaten when I've set my mind on a thing, and I'll break up the composition yet, see if I don't. Again his fist descended upon the table, in a way that reminded one of the steam hammer cracking a nut. The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes. Reardon, under pretense of reading, followed it with as much amusement as anything could excite in him nowadays. At length Mr. Baker stood up, collected his papers and books, and seemed about to depart. But after certain uneasy movements and glances, he said to Biffin in a subdued voice, Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir. He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute or two, a heavy footstep descended the stairs, and Biffin re-entered the room. Now that's a good honest fellow, he said, in an amused tone. It's my pay-night, but he didn't like to fork out money before you. A very unusual delicacy, and a man of that standing. He pays me six pence for an hour's lesson, that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel a little ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he's a good deal better off than I am.  Oh, I've no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told him so before this. To be sure, that's a point I have often to consider, and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of my pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago and wanted Latin lessons, talked about going in for the London metric, on his way to the pulpit. I couldn't stand it. After a lesson or two, I told him his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he got into better health. That was better, I think, than saying plainly he had no chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me. Oh, yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow. You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me. It doesn't make any difference to him that I live in a garret like this. I'm a man of education, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings. Biffin, why don't you get some decent position? Surely you might. What position? No school would take me. I have neither credentials nor conventional clothing. For the same reason, I couldn't get a private tutorship in a rich family. No, no, it's all right. I keep myself alive, and I get on with my work. By the by, I've decided to write a book called Mr. Bailey Grocer. What's the idea? An objectionable word, that. Better say, what's the reality? Well, Mr. Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with him for a long time, and as he's a talkative fellow, I've come to know a good deal about him and his history. He's fond of talking about the struggle he had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, but he married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat's meat business. You should see that woman. A big, coarse, squinting creature. At the time of the marriage, she was a widow and forty-two years old. Now I'm going to tell the true story of Mr. Bailey's marriage, and his progress as a grocer. It'll be a great book, a great book. He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception. There'll be nothing bestial in it, you know, the decently ignoble, as I've so often said. The thing'll take me a year, at least. I shall do it slowly, lovingly, one volume, of course, the length of the ordinary French navel. There's something fine in the title, don't you think? Mr. Bailey Grocer. I, N.V.U., old fellow, said Reardon, sighing, You have the right fire in you. You have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I have decided to do? I should like to hear. Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated across a chair, with his arms on the back. Your wife is in agreement with this? Oh, yes. He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it. She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need. I should say so, too, if you are going to rest. But if you have to set to work at once, it seems to me very doubtful. Never mind. For heaven's sake, don't discourage me. If this fails, I think. Upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself. Poo! exclaimed Biffin gently. Were the wife like yours? Just because of that. No, no. There'll be some way out of it. By the by, I passed Mrs. Reardon this morning, but she didn't see me. Because in Tottenham Court Road, and Milvane was with her, I felt myself too seedy in appearance to stop and speak. In Tottenham Court Road? That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind involuntarily played this trick. I only saw them just as they were passing, pursued Biffin. Oh, I knew I had something to tell you. Have you heard that Welpdale is going to be married? I don't feel much in the humour for Welpdale.  No, no. Come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little. But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you won't care to join. He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper. He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper. Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at Mr. Bailey's. That isn't his real name, of course. He assures me it comes from a large hotel where his wife's sister is a kitchen maid, and that it's perfectly pure. They very often mix flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn't care to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetizing food as I know. I often make a dinner of it. I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy peas pudding? I should think so. I get magnificent penny-worths at a shop in Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed.  I'll give you a supper of them some night before you go. Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties. He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork. This always made the fare seem more substantial. Is it very cold out, he asked, rising from the table, need I put my overcoat on? This overcoat, purchased secondhand three years ago, hung on a doornail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the realist his ordinary indoor garment a morning coat of the cloth called diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the other articles of his attire. Reared in judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it and drew it on with a caution and probably had reference to starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his tobacco-stopper, and his matches murmuring to himself a Greek ambic line which had come into his head a propose of nothing obvious. Go out, he said, and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second step down, as usual. They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed Euston Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior, Mr. Welpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requested them to walk up to the topmost story. A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilization than that inhabited by Biffin. It contained the minimum supply of furniture needed to give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were in good condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain. Behind the draping, the essential equipments of a bed-chamber. Mr.  He was a plain featured but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnut hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a dressing-gown and was without collar. Welcome, gents both, he cried facetiously. Ages since I saw you, Reardon. I've been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in it here and there. Uncommonly good. Welpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable truth and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon rather uncomfortable in his society. Though there is no need whatever of his mentioning Margaret home, he preferred to frame smooth fictions rather than keep a silence which might be construed as unfavorable criticism. In the last volume he went on, I think there are one or two things as good as you ever did, I do indeed. Reardon made no acknowledgement of these remarks. They irritated him for he knew their insincerity. Biffin, understanding his friend's silence struck in on another subject. Who is this lady of whom you write to me? Ah, quite a story. I'm going to be married, Reardon. A serious marriage. Let your pipes and I'll tell you all about it. Sir told you, I suppose, Biffin. Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it a rash step, sir, say. We shall just take another room in this house, that's all. I think I can count upon an income of a couple guineas a week, and I have plans without end that are pretty sure to bring in coin. Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffin lighted his pipe and waited with grave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard of a poor man persuading a woman to share his poverty he was eager of details. Per chance he himself might yet have that heavenly good fortune. Well, began Welpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath he had just puffed from the cigar. You know all about my literary advisorship. The business goes on reasonably well. I'm going to extend it in ways I'll explain to you presently. About six weeks ago I received a letter from a lady, her referred to my advertisements, and said she had the manuscript of a novel, which she would like to offer for my opinion. Two publishers had refused it, but one with complementary phrases, and she hoped it might in be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape. Of course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me. Well, it wasn't actually bad. By Jove, you should have seen some of the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers. It wasn't hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to it. After exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk things over. She hadn't given me her address. I had to direct to a stationers in Bayswater. She agreed to come and did come. I had formed a sort of idea, but of course I was quite wrong. Imagine my excitement when there came in a very beautiful girl, a tremendously interesting girl. About one in twenty. Just the kind of girl that most strongly appeals to me. Dark, pale, rather consumptive looking. Slender. No. There's no describing her. There really isn't. You must wait till you see her. I hoped the consumption was only a figure of speech, remarked Biffin, in his grave way. Oh, there's nothing serious a matter, I think. A slight cough, poor girl. The deuce, interjected Reardon. Oh, nothing, nothing. It'll be all right. Well, now, of course we talked over the story. In good earnest, you know. Little by little I induced her to speak of herself. This, after she'd come two or three times, and she told me of lamentable things. She was absolutely alone in London, and hadn't had sufficient food for weeks, had sold all she could of her clothing, and so on. Her home was in Birmingham. She had been driven away by the brutality of a stepmother. A friend lent her a few pounds, and she came to London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl, let alone one who to begin with was absolutely my ideal. When she began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her, that she wouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myself no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I didn't practice any deception mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as a realistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways. And I explained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds of business together. She might go on with her novel writing, and so on. But she was frightened. I had been too abrupt. That's a fault of mine, you know. But I was so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told her as much plainly. Biffin smiled. This would be exciting, he said, if we didn't know the end of the story. Yes, pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say yes, but I could see that she didn't absolutely say no. In any case, I said, you'll let me see you often. Fees be hanged. I'll work day and night until I've accepted. And I implored her to let me lend her a little money. It was very difficult to persuade her. But at last she accepted a few shillings. I could see in her face that she was hungry. Just imagine. A beautiful girl absolutely hungry. It drove me frantic. But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other almost every day. And at last she consented. Did indeed. I can hardly believe it yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's time. I congratulate you," said Reardon. So do I, sighed Biffin. The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her father, and tell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it was as well. The old fellow isn't badly off, and he may forgive her for running away. Though he's under his wife's thumb, it appears. I had a note yesterday. She had gone to a friend's house for the first day. I hoped to have heard again this morning. Must tomorrow, in any case. I live, as you may imagine, in wild excitement. Of course, if the old man stumps up a wedding present, all the better. But I don't care. We'll make a living somehow. What do you think I'm writing just now? An author's guide. You know the kind of thing. They sell splendidly. Of course I shall make it a good advertisement of my business. Then I have a splendid idea. I'm going to advertise. I'm not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving the ordinary man or woman ten very useful lessons. I've been working out the scheme. It would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals with a question of subjects. Local color. That kind of thing. I gravely advise people, if they possibly can, to write of the wealthy middle class. That's the popular subject, you know. Lords and ladies are all very well. But the real thing is to take a story about people who have no titles, but live in good Philistine style. I urge study of horsey matters, especially. That's very important. You must be well up, too, in military grades. Know about sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an important topic. You see, oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I shall teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons to girls. They'll prefer coming to a woman, you know. Biffin leaped back, and left noisily. How much shall you charge for the course? asked Reardon. That'll depend. I shan't refuse again or two. But some people may be made to pay five, perhaps. Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said, A letter for you, Mr. Welpdale. He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated. Yes, it's from Birmingham, posted this morning. Look what an exquisite hand she writes. He tore open the envelope, and delicacy, Reardon and Biffin averted their eyes. There was silence for a minute. Then a strange ejaculation from Welpdale caused his friends to look up at him. He had gone pale, and was frowning at the sheet of paper which trembled in his hand. No bad news, I hope, Biffin ventured to say. Welpdale let himself sink into a chair. Now if this isn't too bad, he exclaimed in a thick voice. If this isn't monstrously unkind, I never heard anything so gross as this. Never. He was frowning not to smile. She writes that she has met an old lover in Birmingham, that it was with him she had curled, not with her father at all, that she ran away to annoy him and frighten him, that she has made it up again, and they're going to be married. He had let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woe be gone that his friends at once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as the case admitted of. He had not believed him capable of it. It isn't a case of vulgar cheating, cried the forsaken one presently. Don't go away thinking that. She writes in real distress, in penitence, she does indeed. Oh, the devil, why did I let her go to Birmingham? A fortnight mourn, and I should have had her safe. But it's just like my luck. Do you know that this is the third time I've been engaged to be married? No, by Jove IV. And every time the girl has got out of it for the last moment, what an unlucky beast I am, a girl who is positively my ideal. I haven't even a photograph of her to show you, but you'd be astonished at her face. Why, in the devil's name, did I let her go to Birmingham? The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as if Welpdale might find vent for his distress and tears. We had better leave you, suggested Biffin. It's very hard, it is indeed. Look here, read the letter for yourselves. Do. They declined, and begged him not to insist. But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn't a case of far-shield deceiving, not a bit of it. She implores me to forgive her, and blames herself no wind. Just my luck. The third. No, the fourth time, by Jove.  It's because I'm so damnably poor. That's it, of course. They succeeded at length in getting away, though not till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the vanished girl described again and again in much detail. Both were in a state of depression as they left the house. What do you think of the story, asked Biffin? Is this possible in a woman of any merit? Anything is possible in a woman, Reardon replied, harshly. They walked in silence as far as Portland Road station, there with an assurance that he would come before leaving London. Reardon parted from his friend and turned westward. As soon as he had entered, Amy's voice called to him. Here's a letter from Jedwood, Edwin. He stepped into the study. It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do to resist the temptation to open it. Why shouldn't you have opened it? Said her husband carelessly. He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at first. The letter in the publisher's own writing, and the first word that caught his attention was regret. With an angry effort to command himself, he ran through the communication, then held it out to Amy. She read, and her countenance fell. Mr. Jedwood regretted that the story offered to him did not seem likely to please that particular public to whom his series of one-volume novels made appeal. He hoped it would be understood that in declining he by no means expressed an adverse judgment of the story itself, etc. It doesn't surprise me, said Reardon. I believe he is quite right. The thing is too empty to please the better kind of readers, yet not vulgar enough to please the worse. But you'll try someone else? I don't think it's much use. They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood's letter slipped from Amy's lap to the ground. So, said Reardon presently, I don't see how our plan is to be carried out. For what must be? But how? You'll get seven or eight pounds from the wayside, and hadn't we better sell the furniture instead of... His look checked her. It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from me on whatever terms. Don't begin that over again, she exclaimed fretfully, if you don't believe what I say. They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension, their voices quivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness. If we sell the furniture, pursued Reardon, that means you'll never come back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child from the hard life that seems to be before us. Yes, I do, but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work for us all, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how wretched this is! She burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of attempting to soothe her, went into the next room, where he sat for a long time in the dark. When he returned, Amy was calm again, her face expressed a cold misery. Where did you go this morning? He asked, as a phishing to talk of common things. I told you, I went to buy those things for Willie. Oh, yes. There was a silence. Biffin passed you and Tottenham Court Road, he added. I didn't see him. No, he said you didn't. Perhaps, said Amy, you met Milvane? Yes. Why didn't you tell me? I'm sure I don't know. I can't mention every trifle that happens. No, of course not. Amy closed her eyes as if in weariness, and for a minute or two Reardon observed her countenance. So you think we had better sell the furniture? I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to you, Edwin.  Yes, I thought you would like to come too. No. There's no good in my going. He again rose, and that night they talked no more of their difficulties. Though on the morrow, Sunday, it would be necessary to decide their course in every detail. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of New Grubb Street This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Emily Livingston New Grubb Street by George Gissing Chapter 17 The Parting Amy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as a mere matter of course accompanying her mother. But Reardon's attitude with regard to the popular religion speedily became her own. She let the subject lapse from her mind and cared neither to defend nor to attack where dogma was concerned. She had no sympathies with mysticism. Her nature was strongly practical with something of zeal for intellectual attainment super-added. This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic leisure. Reardon noticed what looked like preparations for packing and, being as little disposed for conversation as his wife, he went out and walked for a couple hours in the Hampstead region. Dinner over, Amy at once made ready for her journey to Westbourne Park. Then you won't come, she said to her husband. No, I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don't care to till you have settled everything. It was half a year since he had met Mrs. Yule. She never came to their dwelling and Reardon could not bring himself to visit her. You would much rather we didn't sell the furniture, Amy asked. Ask your mother's opinion that she'll decide. There'll be the expense of moving it, you know, unless money comes from the wayside you'll only have two or three pounds left. Reardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of shame. I say then, pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face, that I am to go for good on Tuesday, I mean of course for the summer months. I suppose so. Then he turned suddenly upon her. Do you really imagine that at the end of summer I shall be a rich man? What do you mean by talking in this way? If the furniture is sold to supply me with a few pounds for the present, what prospect is there that I shall be able to buy new? How can we look forward at all? replied Amy. It has come to the question of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather get money out of your mother when she has the expense of keeping me in willy. You are right, muttered Reardon. Do as you think best. Amy was in her most practical mood and would not linger for purposeless talk. A few minutes and Reardon was left alone. He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes which he would take away with him. He knew the indispensable companions of a bookish man who still clings to life, his Homer, his Shakespeare. The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them tomorrow morning. Altogether they might bring him a couple of sovereigns. Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a wife. His wardrobe was as good as his finances allowed. But there was no object in burdening himself with winter garments. For, if he lived through the summer at all, he would be able to repurchase such few poor things as were needful. At present he could only think of how to get together a few coins. So he made a heap of such things as might be sold. The furniture, if it must go, the price could scarcely be more than ten or twelve pounds. Well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in this way his summer's living would be abundantly provided for. He thought of Biffin enviously. Biffin, if need be, could support life on three or four shillings a week. Happy in the thought that no mortal had a claim upon him. If he starved to death, well, many another lonely man would come to that end, if he preferred to kill himself, who would be distressed, spoiled child of fortune. The bells of St. Mary Le Bon began to clang for afternoon service. In the idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons and he marveled that there were people who could imagine it a duty or find solace to go and sit in a twilight church and listen to the droning of prayers. He thought of the wretched millions of mankind to whom life is so barren that they must needs believe in a recompense beyond the grave. For that he neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that this world might be sufficing paradise to him if only he could clutch a little share of current coin. He had won the world's greatest prize, a woman's love, but could not retain it because his pockets were empty. That he should fail to make a great name, this was grievous disappointment to Amy, but this alone would not have estranged her. It was the dread and shame of penury that made him, and he could not in his conscience scorn her for being thus affected by the vulgar circumstances of life. Only a few supreme natures stand unshaken under such a trial, and though his love of Amy was still passionate, he knew that her place was among a certain class of women and not on the isolated pinnacle where he had first been. It was entirely natural that she shrank at the test of squalid suffering, a little money, and he could have rested secure in her love, for then he would have been able to keep ever before her the best qualities of his heart and brain. Upon him, too, penury had its debasing effect. As now he presented himself, it was all simple and intelligible enough, a situation that would be misread only by shallow idealism. Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvane's energy and promise of success. He had no ignomal suspicions of Amy, but it was impossible for him not to see that she habitually contrasted the young journalist who laughingly made his way among men with her grave, dispirited husband who was not even capable of holding such position as he had gained. She enjoyed Milvane's conversation. It put her in good humor. She liked him personally, and there could be no doubt that she had observed a jealous tendency in Reardon's attitude toward his former friend. Always a harmful suggestion to a woman. Formerly, she had appreciated her husband's superiority. She had smiled at Milvane's commoner stamp of mind and character, but tedious repetition of failure had outwearied her. And now she saw Milvane in the sunshine of progress dwelt upon the worldly advantages of gifts and a temperament such as his. Again, simple and intelligible enough. Living apart from her husband she could not be expected to forswear society and doubtless she would see Milvane pretty often. He called occasionally at Mrs. Ewell's and would not do so less often when he knew that Amy was to be met there. There would be chance encounters like that of yesterday of which she had chosen to keep silence. A dark fear began to shadow him in yielding thus passively to stress of circumstances was he not exposing his wife to a danger which outweighed all the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was inestimably dear was he right in allowing her to leave him, if only for a few months? He knew very well that a man of strong character would never have entertained this he had got into the way of thinking of himself as too weak to struggle against the obstacles on which Amy insisted and of looking for safety in retreat. But what was to be the end of this weakness if the summer did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy could how unlikely it was that he should recover the energies of his mind in so short a time and under such circumstances only the feeble man's temptation to postpone effort had made him consent to this step and now that he was all but beyond turning back the perils of which he had thought too little force themselves upon his mind. He rose in anguish and stood looking about him as if aid might somewhere be visible. Presently there was a knock at the front door and on opening he beheld the vivacious Mr. Carter this gentleman had only made two or three calls here since Reardon's marriage his appearance was a surprise I hear you are leaving town for a time he exclaimed Edith told me yesterday so I thought I'd look you up he was in spring costume and exhaled fresh odors the contrast between his prosperous animation and Reardon's broken spirited quietness could not have been more striking. Going away for your health they tell me you've been working too hard you know you mustn't overdo it and where do you think of going to it isn't all that certain that I should go Reardon replied I thought of a few weeks somewhere at the seaside I advise you to go north went on Carter cheerily you want a tonic you know get up to Scotland and do some boating and fishing that kind of thing you'd come back a new man Edith and I had to turn up there last year you know it did me heaps of good oh I don't think I should go as far as that but that's just what you want a regular change something bracing you don't look at all well that's the fact a winter in London tries any man it does me I know I've been seedy myself these last few weeks Edith wants me to take her over to Paris at the end of this month and I think it isn't a bad idea but I'm so confoundedly busy in the autumn we shall go to Norway I think it seems the right thing to do nowadays why shouldn't you have a run over to Norway they say it can be done very cheaply the steamers take you for next to nothing he talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income is assured and whose future teams with a succession of lively holidays Reardon could make no answer to such suggestions he sat with a fixed smile on his face have you heard said Carter presently the ranch of the hospital in the city road no I hadn't heard of it it'll only be for our outpatients open three mornings and three evenings alternately who'll represent you there I shall look in now and then of course there'll be a clerk like the old place he talked of the matter in detail of doctors who would attend and of certain new arrangements to be tried have you engaged the clerk Reardon asked not yet I think I know a man who'll suit me though you wouldn't be disposed to give me the chance Reardon spoke huskily and ended with a broken laugh you're rather above my figures now a day old man exclaimed Carter joining in what he considered the jest shall you pay a pound a week twenty five shillings it'll have to be a man who can be trusted to take money from the paying patients well I'm serious will you give me the place Carter gazed at him and checked another laugh what the deuce do you mean the fact is Reardon replied I can't stick it writing for more than a month or two at a time it's because I have tried to do so that well practically I have broken down if you will give me this clerkship it will relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writing novels I shall be better for it in every way you know I'm equal to the job you can trust me more useful than most clerks you could get it was done most happily done on the first impulse a minute more of pause and he could not have faced the humiliation his face burned his tongue was parched I'm floored cried Carter I shouldn't have thought but of course if you really want it I can hardly believe yet that you're serious Reardon why not will you promise me the work well yes when shall I have to begin the place will be open tomorrow week but how about your holiday oh let that stand over it'll be holiday enough to occupy myself in a new way an old way too I shall enjoy it he laughed merrily at having come to what seemed like an end of his difficulties for a half an hour they continued to talk over the affair well it's a comical idea said Carter as he took his leave but you know your own business best when Amy returned Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed before he sought any conversation she came at length and sat down in the study mother advises us not to sell the furniture were her first words I'm glad of that as I had quite made up my mind not to there was a change in his way of speaking which she at once noticed have you thought of something yes Carter has been here and he happened to mention that they're opening an outpatient department in the city road he'll want someone to help there I asked for the post and he promised it to me the last words were hurried though he resolved to speak with deliberation no more feebleness he had taken a decision and would act upon it as became a responsible man the post said Amy what post in plain English the clerkship it'll be the same work as I used to have registering patients receiving their letters and so on the pay is to be five and twenty shillings a week Amy sat upright and looked steadily at him is this a joke far from it dear it's a blessed deliverance you have asked Mr. Carter to take you back as a clerk I have and you propose that we shall live on twenty five shillings a week oh no I shall be engaged only three mornings in the week and three evenings in my free time I shall do literary work and no doubt I can earn fifty pounds a year by it if I have your sympathy to help me tomorrow I shall go and look for room some distance from here in Islington I think we've been living far beyond our means that must come to an end we'll have no more keeping up of sham appearances if I can make my way in literature well and good in that case our position and prospects will of course change but for the present we are poor people and must live in a poor way if our friends like to come and see us they must put aside all snobbishness and take us as we are if they prefer not to come they'll be an excuse in our remoteness Amy was stroking the back of her hand after a long silence she said in a very quiet but resolute tone I shall not consent to this in that case Amy I must do without your consent the rooms will be taken and our furniture transferred to them to me that will make no difference returned his wife in the same voice as before I have decided as you told me to to go with Willie to mother's next Tuesday you of course must do as you please I should have thought a summer at seaside would have been more helpful to you but if you prefer to live in Islington I feared and approached her and laid a hand on her shoulder Amy are you my wife or not I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who has paid so much a week he had foreseen a struggle but without certainty of the form Amy's opposition would take for himself he meant to be gently resolute regardless of protest but in a man to whom so much self-assertion is a matter of conscious effort tremor of the nerves will always interfere with a line of conduct he has conceived in advance already Reardon had spoken with far more bluntness than he proposed involuntarily his voice slipped from earnest determination to the note of absolutism and as is want to be the case the sound of these strange tones instigated him to further utterances of the same kind he lost control of himself Amy's last reply went through him like an electric shock and for the moment he was a mere husband defied by his wife the male stung to exertion of his brute force against the physically weaker sex however you regard me you will do what I think fit I shall not argue with you if I choose to take lodgings in white chapel there you will come and live he met Amy's full look and was conscious of that in which it corresponded to his own brutality she had suddenly a much older woman her cheeks were tight drawn into thinness her lips were bloodlessly hard there was an unknown furrow along her forehead and she glared like the animal that defends itself with tooth and claw do as you think fit indeed could Amy's voice sound like that great heaven just such accent he had heard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at the street corner is there no essential difference between a woman of this world and one of that does the same nature lie beneath such unlike surfaces he had but to do one thing to seize her by the arm drag her up from the chair dash her back again with all his force there the transformation would be complete they would stand towards each other on the natural footing with an added curse perhaps instead of that he choked struggled for breath and shed tears Amy turned scornfully away from him blows in a curse would have overawed her at all events from the moment she would have felt yes he is a man I have put my destiny into his hands his tears moved her to a feeling cruelly exultant they were a sign of her superiority it was she who should have wept and never in her life had she been further from such a display of weakness this could not be the end however and she had no wish to terminate the scene they stood for a minute they were shooting each other then Reardon faced her you refused to live with me then yes if that is the kind of life you offer me you would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes than to declare to everyone that you had deserted him I shall declare to everyone the simple truth you have the opportunity of making one more effort to save us from degradation you refuse to take the trouble you prefer to drag me down into a lower rank of life I can't and won't consent to that the disgrace is yours it's fortunate for me that I have a decent home to go to fortunate for you you make yourself utterly contemptible I have done nothing that justifies you in leaving me it is for me to judge what I can do and what I can't a good woman would see no degradation in what I ask of you but to run from me just because I am poor than you ever thought I should be he was incoherent a thousand passionate things he wished to say clashed together in his mind and confused his speech defeated in the attempt like a strong man he could not yet recover standing ground knew not how to tone his utterances yes of course that's how you will put it said Amy that's how you will represent me to your friends my friends will see it in a different light they will regard you as a martyr no one shall make a martyr of me you may be sure I was unfortunate enough to marry a man who had no delicacy no regard for my feelings I am not the first woman who has made a mistake of this kind no delicacy no regard for your feelings have I always utterly misunderstood you or has poverty changed you to a woman I can't recognize he came nearer and gazed desperately into her face not a muscle of it showed susceptibility to the old influences do you know Amy he added in a lower voice that if we part now we part forever I'm afraid that is only too likely she moved aside you mean that you wish it you are weary of me and care for nothing but howly to make yourself free I shall argue no more I am tired to death of it then say nothing but listen for the last time to my view of the position we have come to when I consented to leave you for a time to go away and try to work in solitude I was foolish and even insincere and to myself I knew that I was undertaking the impossible it was just putting off the evil day that was all putting off the time when I should have to say plainly I can't live by literature so I must look out for some other employment I shouldn't have been so weak but that I knew how you would regard such a decision as that I was afraid to tell the truth, afraid now, when Carter of a sudden put this opportunity before me I saw all the absurdity of the arrangements we had made it didn't take me a moment to make up my mind anything was to be chosen rather than a parting from you unfalse pretenses a ridiculous affectation of hope where there was no hope he paused and saw that his words had no effect upon her and a grievous share of the fault lies with you, Amy you remember very well when I first saw how dark the future was I was driven even to say that we ought to change our mode of living I asked if you would be willing to leave this place and go into cheaper rooms and you know what your answer was not a sign that you would stand by me if the worst came I knew then what I had to look forward to but I durst not believe it I kept saying to myself she loves me and as soon as she really understands that was all self deception if I had been a wise man I should have spoken to you in a way you couldn't mistake I should have told you we were living recklessly and that I determined to alter it I have no delicacy no regard for your feelings oh if I had less I doubt whether you can even understand some of the considerations that weighed with me and made me cowardly though I once thought there was no refinement of sensibility you couldn't enter into yes I was absurd enough to say to myself it will look as if I had consciously deceived her she may suffer from the thought that I won her at all hazards knowing that I should soon expose her to poverty and all sorts of humiliations impossible to speak of that again I had to struggle desperately on trying to hope oh if you knew his voice gave away for an instant I don't understand how you could be so thoughtless heartless you knew that I was almost mad with anxiety at times surely any woman must have had the impulse to give up what was in her power how could you hesitate had you no suspicion of what a relief and encouragement it would have been to me if you said yes we must go and live in a simpler way if only as proof that you loved me you welcomed that you helped me in nothing you threw all the responsibility upon me always bearing in mind I suppose that there was a refuge for you even now I despise myself for saying such things to you though I know so bitterly that they are true it takes a long time to see you as such a different woman from the one I worshipped in passion I can fling out silent words but they don't yet answer to my actual feeling it will be long enough yet before I think contemptuously of you you know that when a light is suddenly extinguished the image of it still shows before your eyes but at last comes the darkness Amy turned towards him once more instead of saying all this you might be proving that I am wrong so and I will gladly confess it that you are wrong I don't see your meaning you might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save me from humiliation Amy I have done my utmost I have done more than you can imagine no you have toiled on in illness and anxiety I know that but a chance has offered you now in a better way till that is tried you have no right to give all up and try to drag me down with you I don't know how to answer I have told you so often you can't understand me I can I can her voice trembled for the first time I know that you are so ready to give into difficulties tell me and do as I bid you she spoke in the strangest tone of command it was command not exhortation but there was no harshness in her voice go at once to Mr. Carter tell him you have made a ludicrous mistake in a fit of low spirits anything you like to say tell him of course you couldn't dream of becoming his clerk tonight at once you understand me Edwin go now this moment have you determined to see how weak I am do you wish to be able to despise me more completely still I am determined to be your friend and to save you from yourself go at once leave all the rest to me if I have let things take their course till now it shan't be so in the future the responsibility shall be with me only do as I tell you you know it's impossible it is not I will find the money no one shall be allowed to say that we are parting no one has any such idea yet you are going away for your health just three summer months I have been far more careful of appearances than you imagine but you give me credit for so little I will find the money you need until you have written another book I promise I undertake it then I will find another home for us of the proper kind you shall have no trouble you shall give yourself entirely to intellectual things but Mr. Carter must be told at once before he can spread a report if he has spoken he must contradict what he has said but you amaze me Amy do you mean to say that you look upon it as a veritable disgrace am I taking a clerkship I do I can't help my nature I'm ashamed through and through that you should sink to this but everyone knows that I was a clerk once very few people know it and then that isn't the same thing it doesn't matter what one has been in the past especially a literary man everyone expects to hear that he was once poor but to fall from the position you now have and to take weekly wages you surely can't know how people of my world regard that of your world I had thought your world was the same as mine and you nothing whatever these imbecilities it is getting late go and see Mr. Carter and afterwards I will talk as much as you like he might perhaps have yielded but the unemphasized contempt in that last sentence was more than he could bear it demonstrated to him more completely than set terms could have done what a paltry weakling he would appear in Amy's eyes if he took his hat down from the peg and set out to obey her orders you are asking too much he said with unexpected coldness if my opinions are so valueless to you that you dismiss them like those of a troublesome child I wonder you think it worthwhile to try and keep appearances about me it is very simple make known to everyone that you are in no way connected with the disgrace I have brought upon myself put an advertisement in the newspapers to that effect if you like as men do about their wives deaths I have chosen my part I can't stultify myself to please you she knew that this was final his voice had the true ring of shame in revolt then go your way and I will go mine Amy left the room when Reardon went into the bed chamber an hour later he unfolded a chair bedstead that stood there threw some rugs upon it and so lay down to pass the night he did not close his eyes Amy slept for an hour or two before dawn and on waking she started up and looked anxiously about the room but neither spoke there was a pretense of ordinary breakfast the little servant necessitated that when she saw her husband was preparing to go out Amy asked him to come into the study how long shall you be away he asked curtly it is doubtful I am going to look for rooms then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back there's no object now in my staying here till tomorrow as you please do you wish Lizzie still to come no please to pay her wages and dismiss her here is some money I think you'd better let me see to that he flung the coin on to the table and opened the door Amy stepped quickly forward and closed it again this is our goodbye is it she asked her eyes on the ground as you wish it yes you will remember that I have not wished it in that case you have only to go with me home I can't then you have made your choice she did not prevent his opening the door at this time and he passed out without looking at her his return was at three in the afternoon Amy and the child were gone the servant was gone the table in the dining room was spread as if for one person's meal he went into the bedroom Amy's trunks had disappeared the child's cot was covered over in the study he saw that the sovereign he had thrown on the table still lay in the same place as it was a very cold day he led a fire Willstit burnt up he sat reading a torn portion of the newspaper and became quite interested in the report of a commercial meeting a thing he would never have glanced at under ordinary circumstances the fragment fell at length from his hands his head drooped he sank into a troubled sleep about six he had tea then began the packing of the few books that were to go with him and of such other things as could be enclosed in box or portmanteau a couple hours of this occupation he could no longer resist his weariness so he went to bed before falling asleep he heard the two familiar clocks strike eight this evening they were in unusual accord and the queerless notes from the workhouse sounded between the deeper ones from St. Mary LeBone reared and tried to remember this the matter seemed to have a peculiar interest for him and in dreams he worried himself with a grotesque speculation that's derived end of chapter 17 recording by Emily Livingston recording by Rosie New Grub Street by George Gissing Chapter 18 The Old Home Before her marriage Mrs. Edmund Huell was one of seven motherless sisters who constituted the family of a dentist slenderly provided in the matter of income the pinching and pairing which was a chief employment of her energies in those early days had disagreeable effects upon a character disposed rather to generosity than the reverse during her husband's lifetime she had enjoyed rather too eagerly for good things which he put at her command sometimes forgetting that a wife has duties as well as claims and in her widowhood she indulged a pretentiousness and queerlessness which were the natural but not amiable results of suddenly restricted circumstances like the majority of London people she occupied a house of which the rent absurdly exceeded the due proportion of her income a pleasant foible turned to such good account by London landlords whereas she might have lived with a good deal of modest comfort her existence was a effort to conceal the squalid background of what was meant for the eyes of her friends and neighbors she kept only two servants who were so ill paid and so relentlessly overworked that it was seldom they remained with her for more than three months in dealing with other people whom she per force employed she was often guilty of incredible meanness as for instance when she obliged her half-starved dressmaker to purchase material for her and then postponed payment alike for that and for the work itself to the last possible moment this was not heartlessness in the strict sense of the word the woman not only knew that her behavior was shameful she was in truth ashamed of it and sorry for her victims but life was a battle she must either crush or be crushed with sufficient means she would have defrauded no one and would have behaved generously to many with barely enough for her needs she set her face and defied her feelings and as much as she believed there was no choice she would shed tears over a pitiful story of want and without shadow of hypocrisy it was hard it was cruel such things ought to be allowed in a world where there were so many rich people the next day she would argue with her charwoman about half-pence in the end by paying the poor creature what she knew was inadequate and unjust for the simplest reason she hadn't more to give without submitting to privations which she considered intolerable but whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers to those who were akin to her and to those of whom she was fond her affectionate kindness was remarkable one observes this peculiarity often enough it reminds one how savage social conflict is in which those little groups of people stand seried against their common enemies relentless to all others among themselves only the more tender and zealous because of the ever impending danger no mother was ever more devoted her son a gentleman of quite noteworthy selfishness had bored and lodging beneath her roof on nominal terms and under no stress of pecuniary trouble had Mrs. Ewell called upon him to make the slightest sacrifice on her behalf her daughter she loved with profound tenderness had no will that was opposed to Amy's and it was characteristic of her that her children were never allowed to understand of what baseness she often became guilty in the determination to support appearances John Ewell naturally suspected what went on behind the scenes on one occasion since Amy's marriage he had involuntarily overheard a dialogue between his mother and a servant on the point of departing which made him feel ashamed but from Amy every paltryness and meanness had always been concealed with the utmost care Mrs. Ewell did not scruple to lie heroically when in danger of being detected by her daughter yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed above her own stratum she did not aim at intimacy with her superiors merely at superiority among her intimates her circle was not large but in that circle she must be regarded with the respect due to a woman of refined tastes and personal distinction her little dinners might be of rare occurrence but if he invited must be felt at privilege Mrs. Edmund Ewell must sound well on people's lips never be the occasion of those peculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond of indulging at the mention of other people's names the question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from the time when the little girl shot into a woman grown for Amy no common match no acceptance of a husband merely for money or position few men who walked the earth were mates for Amy but years went on and the man of undeniable distinction did not yet present himself suitors offered but Amy smiled coldly at their addresses in private not seldom scornfully and her mother though growing anxious approved then of a sudden appeared Edwin Reardon a literary man well it was one mode of distinction happily a novelist novelists now and then had considerable social success Mr. Reardon it was true did not impress one as a man likely to push forward where the battle called for rude vigor but Amy soon assured herself that he would have a reputation far other than that of the average successful storyteller the best people would regard him he would be welcomed in the penetrally of culture superior persons would say oh I don't read novels as a rule but of course Mr. Reardon's if that really were to be the case all as well for Mrs. Yule could appreciate social and intellectual differences alas alas what was the end of those shining anticipations first of all Mrs. Yule began to make less frequent mention of my son-in-law Mr. Edwin Reardon next she never uttered his name save when inquiries necessitated it then the most intimate of her intimates received little hints which were not quite easy to interpret Mr. Reardon is growing so very eccentric has an odd distaste for society occupies himself with all sorts of out-of-the-way interests now I'm afraid we shan't have another of his novels for some time I think he writes anonymously a good deal and really such curious eccentricities many were the tears she wept after her depressing colloquies with Amy and as was to be expected she thought severely of the cause of these sorrows on the last occasion when he came to her house she received him with such extreme civility that Reardon then forth disliked her whereas before he had only thought her a good natured and silly woman alas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction from step to step of descent till here was downright catastrophe bitter enough in itself but most lamentable with reference to friends of the family how is it to be explained this return of Amy to her home for several months whilst her husband was no further away than worthy the bald horrible truth impossible yet Mr. Milvane knew it and the Carter's must guess it what color could be thrown upon such vulgar distress the worst was not yet it declared itself this may morning when quite unexpectedly a cab drove up to the house bringing Amy and her child and her trunks and her band boxes and her what-nots from the dining room window Mrs. Yule was aware of this arrival and in a few moments she learned the unspeakable cause she burst into tears genuine as ever woman shed there's no use in that mother said Amy whose temper was in a dangerous state nothing worse can happen that's one consolation oh it's disgraceful disgraceful sobbed Mrs. Yule what are we to say I cannot think I shall say nothing whatever people can scarcely have the impertence to ask us questions when we have shown that they are unwelcome but there are some people I can't help giving some explanation to my dear child he is not in his right mind I'm convinced of it there he is not in his right mind that's nonsense mother he is as sane as I am but you have often said what strange things he says and does you know you have Amy that talking in his sleep I've thought a great deal of it since you told me about that and so many other things I shall give it to be understood that he has become so very odd in his ways that I can't have that replied Amy with decision don't you see in that case I should be behaving very badly I can't see that at all there are many reasons as you know very well why one shouldn't live with a husband who is at all suspected of mental derangement you have done your utmost for him and this would be some sort of explanation you know I am so convinced that there is truth in it too of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like but I think it would be very wrong to start a rumor of this kind there was less resolve in this utterance Amy mused and looked wretched come up to the drawing room dears at her mother for they had held their conversation in the room nearest to the house door what state your mind must be in oh dear oh dear she was a slender well proportioned woman still pretty in face and dressed in a way that emphasized her abiding charms her voice had something of plaintiveness and although she was a frailer type than our daughter is my room ready Amy inquired on the stairs I'm sorry to say it isn't dear as I didn't expect you till tomorrow but it shall be seen too immediately this addition to the household was destined to cause great difficulties with the domestic slaves but Mrs. Ewell would prove equal to the occasion on Amy's behalf she would have worked her servants till they perished of exhaustion before her eyes used my room for the present she added I think the girl has finished up there but wait here I'll just go and see to things things were not quite satisfactory as it proved you should have heard the change that came in that sweetly plaintive voice when it addressed the luckless housemaid it was not brutal not at all but so sharp hard unrelenting the voice of the goddess poverty herself perhaps sounds like that mad was he to be spoken of in a low voice and with finger pointing to the forehead there was something ridiculous as well as repugnant in such a thought but it kept possession of Amy's mind she was brooding upon it when her mother came into the drawing room and positively refused to carry out the former plan refused said it was useless how could it be useless there's something so unaccountable in his behavior I don't think it unaccountable replied Amy it's weak and selfish that's all he takes the first miserable employment that offers rather than face the hard work of writing another book she was quite aware that this did not truly represent her husband's position but an uneasiness of conscience impelled her to harsh speak but just fancy exclaimed her mother what can he mean by asking you to go and live with him on 25 shillings a week upon my word if his mind isn't disordered he must have made a deliberate plan to get rid of you Amy shook her head you mean asked Mrs. Yule that he really thinks it possible for all of you to be supported on those wages the last word was chosen to express the utmost scorn he talked of earning 50 pounds a year by writing even then it could only make about a hundred a year my dear child it's one of two things either he is out of his mind or he has lost you off Amy laughed thinking of her husband in the light of the latter alternative there's no need to seek so far for explanation she said he has failed that's all just like a man might fail in any other business he can't write like he used to it may be all the result of ill health I don't know his last book you see is positively refused he has made up his mind that there's nothing but poverty before him and he can't understand why I should object to live like the wife of a working man in an only difficult position if he had gone away to Worthing for the summer we might have made it seem natural people are always ready to allow a literary man to do rather odd things up to a certain point we should have behaved as if there was nothing that called for explanation but what are we to do now like her multitudinous kind Mrs. Yule lived only in the opinions of other people what others would say was her ceaseless preoccupation she had never conceived of life as something proper to the individual independence in the directing of one's course seemed to her only possible in the case of very eccentric persons or of such as were all together out of society Amy had advanced intellectually far beyond the standpoint but lack of courage disabled her from acting upon her convictions people must know the truth I suppose she answered dispiritedly now confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to Mrs. Yule when social relations were concerned her whole existence was based on bold denial of actualities and as is natural in such persons she had the ostrich instinct strongly developed though very acute in the discovery of her friends shams and lies she deceived herself ludicrously in the matter of concealing her own embarrassments but the fact is my dear she answered we don't know the truth ourselves you had better let yourself be directed by me it will be better at first if you see as few people as possible I suppose you must say something or other to two or three of your own friends if you take my advice you'll be rather mysterious let them think what they like anything is better than to say plainly my husband can't support me and he has gone to work as a clerk for weekly wages be mysterious darling depend on it that's the safest the conversation was pursued with brief intervals all through the day in the afternoon two ladies paid a call but Amy kept out of sight between six and seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanly occupations as he was generally in a touchy temper before dinner had soothed him nothing was said to him of the latest development of his sister's affairs until late in the evening he was allowed to suppose that Reardon's departure for the seaside had taken place a day sooner than had been arranged behind the dining room was a comfortable little chamber set apart as John's sanctum here he smoked and entertained his male friends and contemplated the portraits of those female ones who would not have been altogether at their ease in Mrs. Yule's drawing room not long after dinner his mother and sister came to talk with him in this retreat with some nervousness Mrs. Yule made known to him many the while stood by the table and glanced over a magazine that she had picked up well I see nothing to be surprised at was John's first remark it was pretty certain he'd come to this but what I want to know is how long are we to be at the expense of supporting Amy and her youngster this was practical and just what Mrs. Yule had expected from her son we can't consider such things as that she replied you don't wish I suppose that Amy should go and live in a back street at Islington and be hungry every other day and soon have no decent clothes I don't think Jack would be greatly distressed by what Amy put in quietly this is a woman's way of talking replied John I want to know what is to be the end of it all I've no doubt it's uncommonly pleasant for Reardon to shift his responsibilities onto our shoulders at this rate I think I shall get married and live beyond my means until I can hold out no longer and then hand my wife over to her relatives with my compliments it's about the coolest business that ever came under my notice but what is to be done as Mrs. Yule it's no use talking sarcastically John or making yourself disagreeable we are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty the fact of the matter is Reardon must get a decent birth somebody or other must pitch him into the kind of place that suits men who can do nothing in particular Carter ought to be able to help I should think you know very well said Amy that places of that kind are not to be had for the asking it may be years before any such opportunity offers confound the fellow why the deuce doesn't he go on with his novel writing there's plenty of money to be made out of novels but he can't write Jack he has lost his talent that's all Bosch Amy if a fellow has once got into the swing of it he can keep it up if he likes he might write his two novels a year easily enough just like 20 other men and women look here I could do it myself if I weren't too lazy and that's what the matter is with Reardon he doesn't care to work I've thought of that myself observe Mrs. Yule it really is too ridiculous to say that he couldn't write some kind of novels if he chose look at Miss Blunt's last book why anybody could have written that I'm sure there isn't a thing in it I couldn't have imagined myself well all I want to know is what's Amy going to do if things don't alter she shall never want to home as long as I have one to share with her John's natural procedure when beset by difficulties was to find fault with everyone all around himself maintaining a position of irresponsibility it's all very well mother but when a girl gets married she takes her husband I have always understood for better or worse just as a man takes his wife to tell the truth it seems to me Amy has put herself in the wrong it's deuced unpleasant to go and live in back streets and to go without dinner now and then but girls mustn't marry if they're afraid to face these things don't talk so monstrously John exclaimed his mother how could Amy possibly foresee such things the case is quite an extraordinary one not so uncommon I assure you someone was telling me the other day of a married lady well educated and blameless who goes to work at a shop somewhere other because her husband can't support her and you wish to see Amy working in a shop no I can't say I do I'm only telling you that her luck isn't unexampled it's very fortunate for her that she has good-natured relatives Amy had taken a seat apart she sat with her head leaning on her hand why don't you go and see Reardon John asked of his mother what would be the use perhaps he would tell me to mind my own business by Gingo precisely what you would be doing I think you ought to see him and give him to understand he's behaving in a confoundedly un-gentlemanly way evidently he's the kind of fellow that wants stirring up I have a mind to go and see him myself where is this slum that he's gone to heaven we don't know his address yet so long as it's not the kind of place where one would be afraid of catching a fever I think it wouldn't be a miss for me to look him up you'll do no good by that said Amy indifferently confounded it's just because nobody does anything that things have come to this pass the conversation was of course profitless John could only return again and again to his assertion that Reardon must get a decent birth at length Amy left the room in weariness and disgust I suppose they have quarreled terrifically said her brother as soon as she was gone I'm afraid so well you must do as you please but it's confounded hard lines that you should have to keep her and the kid you know I can't afford to contribute my dear I haven't asked you to know but you'll have the devil's own job to make ends meet I know that well enough I shall manage somehow all right you're a plucky woman but it's too bad Reardon's a humbug that's my opinion I shall have a talk with Carter about him I suppose he doesn't have any furniture to the slum he can't have removed yet it was only this morning that he went to search for lodgings oh then I tell you what it is I shall look in there first thing tomorrow morning and just talk to him in a fatherly way you needn't say anything to Amy but I see he's just the kind of fellow that if everyone leaves him alone he'll be content with Carter's five and twenty shillings for the rest of his life and never trouble his head about how Amy is living to this proposal Mrs. Yule readily assented on that Amy had all but fallen asleep upon a settee in the drawing room you are quite worn out with your trouble she said go to bed and have a good long sleep yes I will the neat fresh bed chamber seemed to Amy a delightful haven of rest she turned the key in the door with an enjoyment of the privacy thus secured such as she had never known in her life foreign maidenhood safe solitude was a matter of course to her and since marriage she had not passed a night alone Willie was fast asleep in a little bed alone in an impulse of maternal love and gladness she bent over the child and covered his face with kisses too gentle to awaken him how clean and sweet everything was it is often said by people who are exquisitely ignorant of the matter that cleanliness is a luxury within reach even of the poorest very far from that only with the utmost difficulty with weary some exertion with harassing sacrifice can people who are pinched for money preserve a moderate purity in their painful degrees Amy had accustomed herself to compromises in this particular which in the early days of her married life would have seemed intensely disagreeable if not revolting a housewife who lives in the country and has but a patch of back garden or even a good-sized kitchen can if she thinks fit take her place at the wash tub and relieve her mind on laundry matters but to the inhabitant of a miniature flat in the heart of London anything of that kind is out of the question when Amy began to cut down her laundresses bill she did it with a sense of degradation one grows accustomed however to such unpleasant necessities and already she had learned what was the minimum of expenditure for one who is troubled with the ladies instincts no no cleanliness is a costly thing and a troublesome thing when appliances and means have to be improvised it was in part the understanding she had gained of this side of the life of poverty that made Amy shrink and dread from the still narrower lodging to which Reardon invited her she knew how subtly one self-respect can be undermined by emotions the difference between the life of well-to-do educated people and that of the uneducated poor is not greater invisible details than in the minutia of privacy and Amy must have submitted to an extraordinary change before it would have been possible for her to live at ease in the circumstances which satisfy a decent working-class woman she was prepared for final parting from her husband rather than to try to affect that change in herself she undressed at leisure and stretched her limbs in the cold soft fragrant a sigh of profound relief escaped her how good it was to be alone and in a quarter of an hour she was sleeping as peacefully as the child who shared her room at breakfast in the morning she showed a bright almost a happy face it was long long since she had enjoyed such a night's rest so undisturbed with unwelcome thoughts on the threshold of sleep and unawakening her life was perhaps wrecked but the thought of that did not press upon her for the present she must enjoy her freedom it was like a recovery of girlhood there are few married women who would not sooner or later accept with joy the offer of some months of a maidenly liberty Amy would not allow herself to think that her wedded life was at an end with a woman's strange faculty of closing her eyes against facts that do not immediately concern her she tasted the relief of the present and let the future lie unregarded Reardon would get out of his difficulty sooner or later somebody or other would help him that was the dim background of her agreeable sensations he suffered no doubt but it was just as well that he should suffering would impel him to effort when he communicated to her his new address he could scarcely neglect to do that she would send not unfriendly letter and hint to him that now is his opportunity for writing a book as good a book as those which formerly issued from his Garrett solitude if he found that literature was in truth a thing of the past with him that he must exert himself to obtain a position worthy of an educated man yes in this way she would write to him without a word that could hurt or offend she ate an excellent breakfast and made known her enjoyment of I am so glad replied her mother you have been getting quite thin and pale quite consumptive remark John looking up from his newspaper shall I make arrangements for a daily Lando at delivery stables round here you can if you like reply to sister it would do both mother and me good and I have no doubt you could afford it quite well oh indeed your remarkable young woman let me tell you by the by suppose your husband is breakfasting on bread and water I hope not and I don't think it very likely Jack Jack interposed Mrs. Yule softly her son resumed his paper and at the end of the meal rose with an unwanted briskness to make his preparations for departure end of chapter 18 recording by Rosie