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

opened it?” said her husband, carelessly.

He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at first. Succeeding at length, he found a 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 on 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.”

“Oh, it 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 if wishing to talk of common things.

“I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie.”

“Oh yes.”

There was a silence.

“Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road,” he added.

“I didn’t see him.”

“No; he said you didn’t.”

“Perhaps,” said Amy, “it was just when I was speaking to Mr. Milvain.”

“You met Milvain?”

“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.”

“Are you going to see your mother tomorrow?”

“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.

XVII 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 superadded.

This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae. 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 of 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 had very much rather we didn’t sell the furniture?” Amy asked.

“Ask your mother’s opinion. That shall 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 shall say, then,” pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face, “that I am to go there 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 the 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 in this way than borrow of mother⁠—when she has the expense of keeping me and Willie.”

“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. Just a few, 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. All together they might bring him a couple of sovereigns.

Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a wife; his wardrobe was in as good a state as