CHAPTER 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 to-morrow
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 circumstances
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 Biffen enviously. Biffen, 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 has come to that end. If he preferred to kill himself, who would be distressed? Spoilt child of fortune!
The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service. In the idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons, and he marvelled that there were people who could imagine it a duty or find it a solace to go and sit in that 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 a sufficing paradise to him if only he could clutch a poor 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.