New Grub Street Part 98

'Why did she send?'

'What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbid state of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your obstinate folly.'

'In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I have had no choice.'

'I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The art of living is the art of compromise. We have no right to foster sensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of ideal relations; it leads to misery for others as well as ourselves. Genial coa.r.s.eness is what it behoves men like you and me to cultivate. Your reply to your wife's last letter was preposterous. You ought to have gone to her of your own accord as soon as ever you heard she was rich; she would have thanked you for such common-sense disregard of delicacies. Let there be an end of this nonsense, I implore you!'

Reardon stared through the gla.s.s at the snow that fell thicker and thicker.

'What are we--you and I?' pursued the other. 'We have no belief in immortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. What right have we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the best of circ.u.mstances.

Why will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have a serviceable bread-knife?'

Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently.

'You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her thought turns to you as soon as she is in distress.'

'Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child's father know--'

'Perhaps--perhaps--perhaps!' cried Biffen, contemptuously. 'There goes the razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise; that's the only safe rule for you.'

They were both hoa.r.s.e with too much talking, and for the last half of the drive neither spoke.

At the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with poor pretence of appet.i.te. As long as possible they kept within the warmed rooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he could not remain seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the train's starting approached.

They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and promises.

'Forgive my plain speech, old fellow,' said Biffen. 'Go and be happy!'

Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last carriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm.

CHAPTER x.x.xII. REARDON BECOMES PRACTICAL

Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never would have gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its name has become suggestive of fas.h.i.+onable imbecility and the sn.o.bbishness which tries to model itself thereon; he knew that the town was a mere portion of London transferred to the sea-sh.o.r.e, and as he loved the strand and the breakers for their own sake, to think of them in such connection could be nothing but a trial of his temper. Something of this species of irritation affected him in the first part of his journey, and disturbed the mood of kindliness with which he was approaching Amy; but towards the end he forgot this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in her trouble. His impatience made the hour and a half seem interminable.

The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently; his breathing was difficult; though constantly moving, he felt as if, in the absence of excitement, his one wish would have been to lie down and abandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the third-cla.s.s carriage had spread a rug over their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolish faces, the sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated him to the last point of endurance; but for all that he could not draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by some spiritual tormentor to take an interest in their endless games, and to observe their visages until he knew every line with a hateful intimacy.

One of the men had a moustache of unusual form; the ends curved upward with peculiar suddenness, and Reardon was constrained to speculate as to the mode of training by which this singularity had been produced. He could have shed tears of nervous distraction in his inability to turn his thoughts upon other things.

On alighting at his journey's end he was seized with a fit of s.h.i.+vering, an intense and sudden chill which made his teeth chatter. In an endeavour to overcome this he began to run towards the row of cabs, but his legs refused such exercise, and coughing compelled him to pause for breath. Still shaking, he threw himself into a vehicle and was driven to the address Amy had mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but no more was falling.

Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his physical and mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a stoppage told him that the house was reached. On his way he had heard a clock strike eleven.

The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He mentioned his name, and the maid-servant conducted him to a drawing-room on the ground-floor. The house was quite a small one, but seemed to be well furnished. One lamp burned on the table, and the fire had sunk to a red glow. Saying that she would inform Mrs Reardon at once, the servant left him alone.

He placed his bag on the floor, took off his m.u.f.fler, threw back his overcoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the garments beneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in his garret, for he had neither had time to change them, nor thought of doing so.

He heard no approaching footstep but Amy came into the room in a way which showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at him, then drew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his shoulders, and kissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was all he could do to remain standing; he seized one of her hands, and pressed it against his lips.

'How hot your breath is!' she said. 'And how you tremble! Are you ill?'

'A bad cold, that's all,' he answered thickly, and coughed. 'How is Willie?'

'In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we thought that was his ring.'

'You didn't expect me to-night?'

'I couldn't feel sure whether you would come.'

'Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and you felt I ought to know about it?'

'Yes--and because I--'

She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly; her words had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained knitting of her brows had told what she was suffering.

'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' broke forth between her sobs.

Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in the old loving way.

'Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy?'

'Of course. But first, let me tell you why we are here. Edith--Mrs Carter--was coming to spend a week with her mother, and she pressed me to join her. I didn't really wish to; I was unhappy, and felt how impossible it was to go on always living away from you. Oh, that I had never come! Then Willie would have been as well as ever.'

'Tell me when and how it began.'

She explained briefly, then went on to tell of other circ.u.mstances.

'I have a nurse with me in the room. It's my own bedroom, and this house is so small it will be impossible to give you a bed here, Edwin. But there's an hotel only a few yards away.'

'Yes, yes; don't trouble about that.'

'But you look so ill--you are shaking so. Is it a cold you have had long?'

'Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all through the accursed winter. What does that matter when you speak kindly to me once more? I had rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness when you look at me, than live on estranged from you. No, don't kiss me, I believe these vile sore-throats are contagious.'

'But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming this journey, on such a night!'

'Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry because I had kept away from you so long. Have you given me your heart again, Amy?'

'Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor. Now all that is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so anxious for the doctor's coming; the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. How cruel it is that such suffering should come upon a little creature who has never done or thought ill!'

'You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature's cruelty.'

'Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. Mrs Winter--Edith's mother--is a very old lady; she has gone to bed. And I dare say you wouldn't care to see Mrs Carter to-night?'

'No, no! only you and Willie.'

'When the doctor comes hadn't you better ask his advice for yourself?'