CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE
The prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's
failing to suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be
paying a rent of fifty pounds when a home could be found for half
the money was recklessness; there would be no difficulty in
letting the flat for this last year of their lease, and the cost
of removal would be trifling. The mental relief of such a change
might enable him to front with courage a problem in any case very
difficult, and, as things were, desperate. Three months ago, in a
moment of profoundest misery, he had proposed this step; courage
failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voice were too
vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrifice for
his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility
of whatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up
appearances?
Between him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her
silence meant reproach, and—whatever might have been the case
before—there was no doubt that she now discussed him with her
mother, possibly with other people. It was not likely that she
concealed his own opinion of the book he had just finished; all
their acquaintances would be prepared to greet its publication
with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the head. His
feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of
his love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the
same time that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from
representing the truth began to affect his manner and speech, and
Amy did not seem to notice it, at all events she made no kind of
protest. They no longer talked of the old subjects, but of those
mean concerns of material life which formerly they had agreed to
dismiss as quickly as possible. Their relations to each other—
not long ago an inexhaustible topic—would not bear spoken
comment; both were too conscious of the danger-signal when they
looked that way.
In the time of waiting for the publishers' offer, and now again
when he was asking himself how he should use the respite granted
him, Reardon spent his days at the British Museum. He could not
read to much purpose, but it was better to sit here among
strangers than seem to be idling under Amy's glance. Sick of
imaginative writing, he turned to the studies which had always
been most congenial, and tried to shape out a paper or two like
those he had formerly disposed of to editors. Among his unused
material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading of Diogenes
Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make something
salable out of these anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier
mood he could have written delightfully on such a subject—not
learnedly, but in the strain of a modern man whose humour and
sensibility find free play among the classic ghosts; even now he
was able to recover something of the light touch which had given
value to his published essays.
Meanwhile the first number of The Current had appeared, and
Jasper Milvain had made a palpable hit. Amy spoke very often of
the article called 'Typical Readers,' and her interest in its
author was freely manifested. Whenever a mention of Jasper came
under her notice she read it Out to her husband. Reardon smiled
and appeared glad, but he did not care to discuss Milvain with
the same frankness as formerly.
One evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been
writing at the Museum, and asked her if she would care to hear it
read.
'I began to wonder what you were doing,' she replied.
'Then why didn't you ask me?'
'I was rather afraid to.'
'Why afraid?'
'It would have seemed like reminding you that—you know what I
mean.'
'That a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again. Still, I had rather you had shown an interest in my doings.'
After a pause Amy asked:
'Do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted?'
'It isn't impossible. I think it's rather well done. Let me read
you a page—'
'Where will you send it?' she interrupted.