New Grub Street, George Gissing [10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to Mrs. Yule when social relations were concerned. Her whole existence was based on bold denial of actualities. And, as is natural in such persons, she had the ostrich instinct strongly developed; though very acute in the discovery of her friends’ shams and lies, she deceived herself ludicrously in the matter of concealing her own embarrassments.

“But the fact is, my dear,” she answered, “we don’t know the truth ourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. It will be better, at first, if you see as few people as possible. I suppose you must say something or other to two or three of your own friends; if you take my advice you’ll be rather mysterious. Let them think what they like; anything is better than to say plainly. ‘My husband can’t support me, and he has gone to work as a clerk for weekly wages.’ Be mysterious, darling; depend upon it, that’s the safest.”

The conversation was pursued, with brief intervals, all through the day. In the afternoon two ladies paid a call, but Amy kept out of sight. Between six and seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanly occupations. As he was generally in a touchy temper before dinner had soothed him, nothing was said to him of the latest development of his sister’s affairs until late in the evening; he was allowed to suppose that Reardon’s departure for the seaside had taken place a day sooner than had been arranged.

Behind the dining-room was a comfortable little chamber set apart as John’s sanctum; here he smoked and entertained his male friends, and contemplated the portraits of those female ones who would not have been altogether at their ease in Mrs. Yule’s drawing-room. Not long after dinner his mother and sister came to talk with him in this retreat.

With some nervousness Mrs. Yule made known to him what had taken place. Amy, the while, stood by the table, and glanced over a magazine that she had picked up.

“Well, I see nothing to be surprised at,” was John’s first remark. “It was pretty certain he’d come to this. But what I want to know is, how long are we to be at the expense of supporting Amy and her youngster?”

This was practical, and just what Mrs. Yule had expected from her son.

“We can’t consider such things as that,” she replied. “You don’t wish, I suppose, that Amy should go and live in a back street at Islington, and be hungry every other day, and soon have no decent clothes?”

“I don’t think Jack would be greatly distressed,” Amy put in quietly.

“This is a woman’s way of talking,” replied John. “I want to know what is to be the end of it all? I’ve no doubt it’s uncommonly pleasant for Reardon to shift his responsibilities on to our shoulders. At this rate I think I shall get married, and live beyond my means until I can hold out no longer, and then hand my wife over to her relatives, with my compliments. It’s about the coolest business that ever came under my notice.”

“But what is to be done?” asked Mrs. Yule. “It’s no use talking sarcastically, John, or making yourself disagreeable.”

“We are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty. The fact of the matter is, Reardon must get a decent berth. Somebody or other must pitch him into the kind of place that suits men who can do nothing in particular. Carter ought to be able to help, I should think.”

“You know very well,” said Amy, “that places of that kind are not to be had for the asking. It may be years before any such opportunity offers.”

“Confound the fellow! Why the deuce doesn’t he go on with his novel-writing? There’s plenty of money to be made out of novels.”

“But he can’t write, Jack. He has lost his talent.”

“That’s all bosh, Amy. If a fellow has once got into the swing of it he can keep it up if he likes. He might write his two novels a year easily enough, just like twenty other men and women. Look here, I could do it myself if I weren’t too lazy. And that’s what’s the matter with Reardon. He doesn’t care to work.”

“I have thought that myself;” observed Mrs. Yule. “It really is too ridiculous to say that he couldn’t write some kind of novels if he chose. Look at Miss Blunt’s last book; why, anybody could have written that. I’m sure there isn’t a thing in it I couldn’t have imagined myself.”

“Well, all I want to know is, what’s Amy going to do if things don’t alter?”

“She shall never want a home as long as I have one to share with her.”

John’s natural procedure, when beset by difficulties, was to find fault with everyone all round, himself maintaining a position of irresponsibility.

“It’s all very well, mother, but when a girl gets married she takes her husband, I have always understood, for better or worse, just as a man takes his wife. To tell the truth, it seems to me Amy has put herself in the wrong. It’s deuced unpleasant to go and live in back streets, and to go without dinner now and then, but girls mustn’t marry if they’re afraid to face these things.”

“Don’t talk so monstrously, John!” exclaimed his mother. “How could Amy possibly foresee such things? The case is quite an extraordinary one.”

“Not so uncommon, I assure you. Someone was telling me the other day of a married lady⁠—well educated and blameless⁠—who goes to work at a shop somewhere or other because her husband can’t support her.”

“And you wish to see Amy working in a shop?”

“No, I can’t say I do. I’m only telling you that her bad luck isn’t unexampled. It’s very fortunate for her that she has good-natured relatives.”

Amy had taken a seat apart. She sat with her head leaning on her hand.

“Why don’t you go and see Reardon?” John asked of his mother.

“What