New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

permanence in the house, especially since he had learnt that the money sent by Reardon each month was not made use of; why it should not be applied for household expenses passed his understanding.

“It seems to me,” he remarked several times, “that the fellow only does his bare duty in sending it. What is it to anyone else whether he lives on twelve shillings a week or twelve pence? It is his business to support his wife; if he can’t do that, to contribute as much to her support as possible. Amy’s scruples are all very fine, if she could afford them; it’s very nice to pay for your delicacies of feeling out of other people’s pockets.”

“There’ll have to be a formal separation,” was the startling announcement with which Amy answered her mother’s inquiry as to what had passed.

“A separation? But, my dear⁠—!”

Mrs. Yule could not express her disappointment and dismay.

“We couldn’t live together; it’s no use trying.”

“But at your age, Amy! How can you think of anything so shocking? And then, you know it will be impossible for him to make you a sufficient allowance.”

“I shall have to live as well as I can on the seventy-five pounds a year. If you can’t afford to let me stay with you for that, I must go into cheap lodgings in the country, like poor Mrs. Butcher did.”

This was wild talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and for the rest of the day she kept apart in her own room. On the morrow Mrs. Yule succeeded in eliciting a clear account of the conversation which had ended so hopelessly.

“I would rather spend the rest of my days in the workhouse than beg him to take me back,” was Amy’s final comment, uttered with the earnestness which her mother understood but too well.

“But you are willing to go back, dear?”

“I told him so.”

“Then you must leave this to me. The Carters will let us know how things go on, and when it seems to be time I must see Edwin myself.”

“I can’t allow that. Anything you could say on your own account would be useless, and there is nothing to say from me.”

Mrs. Yule kept her own counsel. She had a full month before her during which to consider the situation, but it was clear to her that these young people must be brought together again. Her estimate of Reardon’s mental condition had undergone a sudden change from the moment when she heard that a respectable post was within his reach; she decided that he was “strange,” but then all men of literary talent had marked singularities, and doubtless she had been too hasty in interpreting the peculiar features natural to a character such as his.

A few days later arrived the news of their relative’s death at Wattleborough.

This threw Mrs. Yule into a commotion. At first she decided to accompany her son and be present at the funeral; after changing her mind twenty times, she determined not to go. John must send or bring back the news as soon as possible. That it would be of a nature sensibly to affect her own position, if not that of her children, she had little doubt; her husband had been the favourite brother of the deceased, and on that account there was no saying how handsome a legacy she might receive. She dreamt of houses in South Kensington, of social ambitions gratified even thus late.

On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John’s return by a certain train, but no scrap of news was added.

“Just like that irritating boy! We must go to the station to meet him. You’ll come, won’t you, Amy?”

Amy readily consented, for she too had hopes, though circumstances blurred them. Mother and daughter were walking about the platform half an hour before the train was due; their agitation would have been manifest to anyone observing them. When at length the train rolled in and John was discovered, they pressed eagerly upon him.

“Don’t you excite yourself,” he said gruffly to his mother. “There’s no reason whatever.”

Mrs. Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab, and took places with him.

“Now don’t be provoking, Jack. Just tell us at once.”

“By all means. You haven’t a penny.”

“I haven’t? You are joking, ridiculous boy!”

“Never felt less disposed to, I assure you.”

After staring out of the window for a minute or two, he at length informed Amy of the extent to which she profited by her uncle’s decease, then made known what was bequeathed to himself. His temper grew worse every moment, and he replied savagely to each successive question concerning the other items of the will.

“What have you to grumble about?” asked Amy, whose face was exultant notwithstanding the drawbacks attaching to her good fortune. “If Uncle Alfred receives nothing at all, and mother has nothing, you ought to think yourself very lucky.”

“It’s very easy for you to say that, with your ten thousand.”

“But is it her own?” asked Mrs. Yule. “Is it for her separate use?”

“Of course it is. She gets the benefit of last year’s Married Woman’s Property Act. The will was executed in January this year, and I dare say the old curmudgeon destroyed a former one.

“What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!” cried Amy. “The only one worth anything that I ever heard of.”

“But my dear⁠—” began her mother, in a tone of protest. However, she reserved her comment for a more fitting time and place, and merely said: “I wonder whether he had heard what has been going on?”

“Do you think he would have altered his will if he had?” asked Amy with a smile of security.

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

“You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five thousand good for something,” said Mrs. Yule. “Who was