'Why do you stay here?' she asked.
It was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were red and swollen.
'Have you been crying, Amy?'
'Never mind. Do you know what time it is?'
He went towards her.
'Why have you been crying?'
'There are many things to cry for.'
'Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of it all?'
'I have never said that I didn't love you. Why do you accuse me of such things?'
He took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her face again and again. Amy's tears broke forth anew.
'Why should we come to such utter ruin?' she sobbed. 'Oh, try, try if you can't save us even yet! You know without my saying it that I do love you; it's dreadful to me to think all our happy life should be at an end, when we thought of such a future together. Is it impossible? Can't you work as you used to and succeed as we felt confident you would? Don't despair yet, Edwin;do, do try, whilst there is still time!'
'Darling, darling--if only I COULD!'
'I have thought of something, dearest. Do as you proposed last year; find a tenant for the flat whilst we still have a little money, and then go away into some quiet country place, where you can get back your health and live for very little, and write another book--a good book, that'll bring you reputation again. Iand Willie can go and live at mother's for the summer months. Do this! It would cost you so little, living alone, wouldn't it?
You would know that I was well cared for; mother would be willing to have me for a few months, and it's easy to explain that your health has failed, that you're obliged to go away for a time.'
'But why shouldn't you go with me, if we are to let this place?'
'We shouldn't have enough money. I want to free your mind from the burden whilst you are writing. And what is before us if we go on in this way? You don't think you will get much for what you're writing now, do you?'
Reardon shook his head.
'Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something must be done, you know. If we get into poor lodgings, what hope is there that you'll be able to write anything good?'
'But, Amy, I have no faith in my power of--'
'Oh, it would be different! A few days--a week or a fortnight of real holiday in this spring weather. Go to some seaside place.
How is it possible that all your talent should have left you?
It's only that you have been so anxious and in such poor health.
You say I don't love you, but I have thought and thought what would be best for you to do, how you could save yourself. How can you sink down to the position of a poor clerk in some office?
That CAN'T be your fate, Edwin; it's incredible. Oh, after such bright hopes, make one more effort! Have you forgotten that we were to go to the South together--you were to take me to Italy and Greece? How can that ever be if you fail utterly in literature? How can you ever hope to earn more than bare sustenance at any other kind of work?'
He all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face she held up to his.
'You love me? Say again that you love me!'
'Dear, I love you with all my heart. But I am so afraid of the future. I can't bear poverty; I have found that I can't bear it.
And I dread to think of your becoming only an ordinary man--'
Reardon laughed.
'But I am NOT "only an ordinary man," Amy! If I never write another line, that won't undo what I have done. It's little enough, to be sure; but you know what I am. Do you only love the author in me? Don't you think of me apart from all that I may do or not do? If I had to earn my living as a clerk, would that make me a clerk in soul?'
'You shall not fall to that! It would be too bitter a shame to lose all you have gained in these long years of work. Let me plan for you; do as I wish. You are to be what we hoped from the first. Take all the summer months. How long will it be before you can finish this short book?'
'A week or two.'
'Then finish it, and see what you can get for it. And try at once to find a tenant to take this place off our hands; that would be twenty-five pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live on so little by yourself, couldn't you?'
'Oh, on ten shillings a week, if need be.'
'But not to starve yourself, you know. Don't you feel that my plan is a good one? When I came to you to-night I meant to speak of this, but you were so cruel--'
'Forgive me, dearest love! I was half a madman. You have been so cold to me for a long time.'
'I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and nearer to the edge of a cataract.'
'Have you spoken to your mother about this?' he asked uneasily.
'No--not exactly this. But I know she will help us in this way.'
He had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face laid against hers.
'I shall dread to part from you, Amy. That's such a dangerous thing to do. It may mean that we are never to live as husband and wife again.'
'But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on here till we have no money--what's before us then? Wretched lodgings at the best. And I am afraid to think of that. I can't trust myself if that should come to pass.'
'What do you mean?' he asked anxiously.
'I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you know I have told you that before, Edwin?'
'But you would never forget that you are my wife?'
'I hope not. But--I can't think of it; I can't face it! That would be the very worst that can befall us, and we are going to try our utmost to escape from it. Was there ever a man who did as much as you have done in literature and then sank into hopeless poverty?'
'Oh, many!'
'But at your age, I mean. Surely not at your age?'
'I'm afraid there have been such poor fellows. Think how often one hears of hopeful beginnings, new reputations, and then--you hear no more. Of course it generally means that the man has gone into a different career; but sometimes, sometimes--'
'What?'
'The abyss.' He pointed downward. 'Penury and despair and a miserable death.'
'Oh, but those men haven't a wife and child! They would struggle --'
