CHAPTER XIX. THE PAST REVIVED
Nor would it be true to represent Edwin Reardon as rising to the
new day wholly disconsolate. He too had slept unusually well, and
with returning consciousness the sense of a burden removed was
more instant than that of his loss and all the dreary
circumstances attaching to it. He had no longer to fear the
effects upon Amy of such a grievous change as from their homelike
flat to the couple of rooms he had taken in Islington; for the
moment, this relief helped him to bear the pain of all that had
happened and the uneasiness which troubled him when he reflected
that his wife was henceforth a charge to her mother.
Of course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move
about, to prepare his breakfast (amid the relics of last
evening's meal), to think of all the detestable work he had to do
before to-morrow night, than his heart sank again. His position
was well-nigh as dolorous as that of any man who awoke that
morning to the brutal realities of life. If only for the shame of
it! How must they be speaking of him, Amy's relatives, and her
friends? A novelist who couldn't write novels; a husband who
couldn't support his wife and child; a literate who made eager
application for illiterate work at paltry wages—how interesting
it would all sound in humorous gossip! And what hope had he that
things would ever be better with him?
Had he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been
better to have made that one last effort? There came before him a
vision of quiet nooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long
lines of green breakers bursting into foam; he heard the
wave-music, and tasted the briny freshness of the sea-breeze. Inspiration, after all, would perchance have come to him.
If Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality; if she had
strengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave
tenderness of an ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things
in her eyes. Her love was dead, and she regarded him as the man
who had spoilt her hopes of happiness. It was only for her own
sake that she urged him to strive on; let his be the toil, that
hers might be the advantage if he succeeded.
'She would be glad if I were dead. She would be glad.'
He had the conviction of it. Oh yes, she would shed tears; they
come so easily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way; to be saved from her anomalous position; to see once more a chance in life; she would welcome it.
But there was no time for brooding. To-day he had to sell all the
things that were superfluous, and to make arrangements for the
removal of his effects to-morrow. By Wednesday night, in
accordance with his agreement, the flat must be free for the new
occupier.
He had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were. Three would have cost more than he was likely to be able to afford for a long time. The rent of the two was to be six-and- sixpence; and how, if Amy had consented to come, could he have met the expenses of their living out of his weekly twenty-five shillings? How could he have pretended to do literary work in such cramped quarters, he who had never been able to write a line save in strict seclusion? In his despair he had faced the impossible. Amy had shown more wisdom, though in a spirit of unkindness.
Towards ten o'clock he was leaving the flat to go and find people
who would purchase his books and old clothing and other
superfluities; but before he could close the door behind him, an
approaching step on the stairs caught his attention. He saw the
shining silk hat of a well-equipped gentleman. It was John Yule.
'Ha! Good-morning!' John exclaimed, looking up. 'A minute or two
and I should have been too late, I see.'
He spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing, shook hands.
'Are you obliged to go at once? Or could I have a word with you?'
'Come in.'
They entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made
no reference to circumstances, but offered a chair, and seated
himself.
'Have a cigarette?' said Yule, holding out a box of them.
'No, thank you; I don't smoke so early.'
'Then I'll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me. You're on the point of moving, I suppose?'