The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the vendor.
'And what may you ask for the lot?'
'Please to make an offer.'
'Most of the things has had a good deal of wear--'
'I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.'
'Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.'
It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who understood such affairs would have obtained.
'That's the most you can give?'
'Wouldn't pay me to give a sixpence more. You see--'
He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short.
'Can you take them away at once?'
'At wunst? Would two o'clock do?'
'Yes, it would.'
'And might you want these other things takin' anywheres?'
'Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What would you do it for?'
This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way.
Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of his books; by half-past one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to take away the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed on the morrow.
The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an eating-house and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple of hours to discover the ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrow little by-way running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown a week.
At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study, and wrote the following letter:
'Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have been reminded that your relatives will be at the expense of your support; it seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now Isend you all the money I can spare at present. You will receive to-morrow a box containing several things I did not feel justified in selling. As soon as I begin to have my payment from Carter, half of it shall be sent to you every week. My address is: 5 Manville Street, Upper Street, Islington.--EDWIN REARDON.'
He enclosed the money, in notes and gold, and addressed the envelope to his wife. She must receive it this very night, and he knew not how to ensure that save by delivering it himself. So he went to Westbourne Park by train, and walked to Mrs Yule's house.
At this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window of the dining-room showed lights within, whilst those of the drawing-room were in shadow. After a little hesitation he rang the servants' bell. When the door opened, he handed his letter to the girl, and requested that it might be given to Mrs Reardon as soon as possible. With one more hasty glance at the window--Amy was perhaps enjoying her unwonted comfort--he walked quickly away.
As he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his heart sink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation;nothing remained upon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he would carry with him into the wilderness, such few evidences of civilisation as the poorest cannot well dispense with. Anger, revolt, a sense of outraged love--all manner of confused passions had sustained him throughout this day of toil; now he had leisure to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon his chair-bedstead, and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body and mind.
But before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he could not exert himself to light a fire; there was some food still in the cupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a tired labourer, with the plate on his lap, using his fingers and a knife. What had he to do with delicacies?
He felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffen, what mortal would give him kindly welcome under any roof? These stripped rooms were symbolical of his life; losing money, he had lost everything. 'Be thankful that you exist, that these morsels of food are still granted you. Man has a right to nothing in this world that he cannot pay for. Did you imagine that love was an exception? Foolish idealist! Love is one of the first things to be frightened away by poverty. Go and live upon your twelve-and-sixpence a week, and on your memories of the past.'
In this room he had sat with Amy on their return from the wedding holiday. 'Shall you always love me as you do now?'--'For ever!
for ever!'--'Even if I disappointed you? If I failed?'--'How could that affect my love?' The voices seemed to be lingering still, in a sad, faint echo, so short a time it was since those words were uttered.
His own fault. A man has no business to fail; least of all can he expect others to have time to look back upon him or pity him if he sink under the stress of conflict. Those behind will trample over his body; they can't help it; they themselves are borne onwards by resistless pressure.
He slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as it revealed his desolation.
The morning's post brought him a large heavy envelope, the aspect of which for a moment puzzled him. But he recognised the handwriting, and understood. The editor of The Wayside, in a pleasantly-written note, begged to return the paper on Pliny's Letters which had recently been submitted to him; he was sorry it did not strike him as quite so interesting as the other contributions from Reardon's pen.
This was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected piece of writing without distress; he even laughed at the artistic completeness of the situation. The money would have been welcome, but on that very account he might have known it would not come.
