New Grub Street - George Gissing (e book reader free TXT) 📗

is the best, and infinitely preferable to sexual emotion. It leaves, no doubt, no bitterness of any kind. Poverty can’t rob me of those memories. I have lived in an ideal world that was not deceitful, a world which seems to me, when I recall it, beyond the human sphere, bathed in diviner light.”

It was four or five days after this that Reardon, on going to his work in City Road, found a note from Carter. It requested him to call at the main hospital at half-past eleven the next morning. He supposed the appointment had something to do with his business at Croydon, whither he had been in the meantime. Some unfavourable news, perhaps; any misfortune was likely.

He answered the summons punctually, and on entering the general office was requested by the clerk to wait in Mr. Carter’s private room; the secretary had not yet arrived. His waiting lasted some ten minutes, then the door opened and admitted, not Carter, but Mrs. Edmund Yule.

Reardon stood up in perturbation. He was anything but prepared, or disposed, for an interview with this lady. She came towards him with hand extended and a countenance of suave friendliness.

“I doubted whether you would see me if I let you know,” she said. “Forgive me this little bit of scheming, will you? I have something so very important to speak to you about.”

He said nothing, but kept a demeanour of courtesy.

“I think you haven’t heard from Amy?” Mrs. Yule asked.

“Not since I saw her.”

“And you don’t know what has come to pass?”

“I have heard of nothing.”

“I am come to see you quite on my own responsibility, quite. I took Mr. Carter into my confidence, but begged him not to let Mrs. Carter know, lest she should tell Amy; I think he will keep his promise. It seemed to me that it was really my duty to do whatever I could in these sad, sad circumstances.”

Reardon listened respectfully, but without sign of feeling.

“I had better tell you at once that Amy’s uncle at Wattleborough is dead, and that in his will he has bequeathed her ten thousand pounds.”

Mrs. Yule watched the effect of this. For a moment none was visible, but she saw at length that Reardon’s lips trembled and his eyebrows twitched.

“I am glad to hear of her good fortune,” he said distantly and in even tones.

“You will feel, I am sure,” continued his mother-in-law, “that this must put an end to your most unhappy differences.”

“How can it have that result?”

“It puts you both in a very different position, does it not? But for your distressing circumstances, I am sure there would never have been such unpleasantness⁠—never. Neither you nor Amy is the kind of person to take a pleasure in disagreement. Let me beg you to go and see her again. Everything is so different now. Amy has not the faintest idea that I have come to see you, and she mustn’t on any account be told, for her worst fault is that sensitive pride of hers. And I’m sure you won’t be offended, Edwin, if I say that you have very much the same failing. Between two such sensitive people differences might last a lifetime, unless one could be persuaded to take the first step. Do be generous! A woman is privileged to be a little obstinate, it is always said. Overlook the fault, and persuade her to let bygones be bygones.”

There was an involuntary affectedness in Mrs. Yule’s speech which repelled Reardon. He could not even put faith in her assurance that Amy knew nothing of this intercession. In any case it was extremely distasteful to him to discuss such matters with Mrs. Yule.

“Under no circumstances could I do more than I already have done,” he replied. “And after what you have told me, it is impossible for me to go and see her unless she expressly invites me.”

“Oh, if only you would overcome this sensitiveness!”

“It is not in my power to do so. My poverty, as you justly say, was the cause of our parting; but if Amy is no longer poor, that is very far from a reason why I should go to her as a suppliant for forgiveness.”

“But do consider the facts of the case, independently of feeling. I really think I don’t go too far in saying that at least some⁠—some provocation was given by you first of all. I am so very, very far from wishing to say anything disagreeable⁠—I am sure you feel that⁠—but wasn’t there some little ground for complaint on Amy’s part? Wasn’t there, now?”

Reardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to think over what had happened, and Mrs. Yule’s urgent voice rasped upon his ears. Its very smoothness made it worse.

“There may have been ground for grief and concern,” he answered, “but for complaint, no, I think not.”

“But I understand”⁠—the voice sounded rather irritable now⁠—“that you positively reproached and upbraided her because she was reluctant to go and live in some very shocking place.”

“I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown⁠—But I can’t review our troubles in this way.”

“Am I to plead in vain?”

“I regret very much that I can’t possibly do as you wish. It is all between Amy and myself. Interference by other people cannot do any good.”

“I am sorry you should use such a word as ‘interference,’ ” replied Mrs. Yule, bridling a little. “Very sorry, indeed. I confess it didn’t occur to me that my goodwill to you could be seen in that light.”

“Believe me that I didn’t use the word offensively.”

“Then you refuse to take any step towards a restoration of good feeling?”

“I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say so.”

His earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs. Yule had no choice but to rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded herself sufficiently to offer a regretful hand.

“I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate.”

Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospital and walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction.

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