Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and promise of success. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it was impossible for him not to see that she habitually contrasted the young journalist, who laughingly made his way among men, with her grave, dispirited husband, who was not even capable of holding such position as he had gained. She enjoyed Milvain's conversation, it put her into a good humour; she liked him personally, and there could be no doubt that she had observed a jealous tendency in Reardon's attitude to his former friend--always a harmful suggestion to a woman. Formerly she had appreciated her husband's superiority; she had smiled at Milvain's commoner stamp of mind and character. But tedious repetition of failure had outwearied her, and now she saw Milvain in the sunshine of progress, dwelt upon the worldly advantages of gifts and a temperament such as his. Again, simple and intelligible enough.
Living apart from her husband, she could not be expected to forswear society, and doubtless she would see Milvain pretty often. He called occasionally at Mrs Yule's, and would not do so less often when he knew that Amy was to be met there. There would be chance encounters like that of yesterday, of which she had chosen to keep silence.
A dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to stress of circumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger which outweighed all the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was inestimably dear, was he right in allowing her to leave him, if only for a few months? He knew very well that a man of strong character would never have entertained this project. He had got into the way of thinking of himself as too weak to struggle against the obstacles on which Amy insisted, and of looking for safety in retreat; but what was to be the end of this weakness if the summer did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy could how unlikely it was that he should recover the energies of his mind in so short a time and under such circumstances; only the feeble man's temptation to postpone effort had made him consent to this step, and now that he was all but beyond turning back, the perils of which he had thought too little forced themselves upon his mind.
He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might somewhere be visible.
Presently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he beheld the vivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two or three calls here since Reardon's marriage; his appearance was a surprise.
'I hear you are leaving town for a time,' he exclaimed. 'Edith told me yesterday, so I thought I'd look you up.'
He was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast between his prosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited quietness could not have been more striking.
'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working too hard, you know. You mustn't overdo it. And where do you think of going to?'
'It isn't at all certain that I shall go,' Reardon replied. 'Ithought of a few weeks--somewhere at the seaside.'
'I advise you to go north,' went on Carter cheerily. 'You want a tonic, you know. Get up into Scotland and do some boating and fishing--that kind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and I had a turn up there last year, you know; it did me heaps of good.'
'Oh, I don't think I should go so far as that.'
'But that's just what you want--a regular change, something bracing. You don't look at all well, that's the fact. A winter in London tries any man--it does me, I know. I've been seedy myself these last few weeks. Edith wants me to take her over to Paris at the end of this month, and I think it isn't a bad idea; but I'm so confoundedly busy. In the autumn we shall go to Norway, Ithink; it seems to be the right thing to do nowadays. Why shouldn't you have a run over to Norway? They say it can be done very cheaply; the steamers take you for next to nothing.'
He talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income is assured, and whose future teems with a succession of lively holidays. Reardon could make no answer to such suggestions; he sat with a fixed smile on his face.
'Have you heard,' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a branch of the hospital in the City Road?'
'No; I hadn't heard of it.'
'It'll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three evenings alternately.'
'Who'll represent you there?''I shall look in now and then, of course; there'll be a clerk, like at the old place.'
He talked of the matter in detail--of the doctors who would attend, and of certain new arrangements to be tried.
'Have you engaged the clerk?' Reardon asked.
'Not yet. I think I know a man who'll suit me, though.'
'You wouldn't be disposed to give me the chance?'
Reardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh.
'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed Carter, joining in what he considered the jest.
'Shall you pay a pound a week?'
'Twenty-five shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be trusted to take money from the paying patients.'
'Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?'
Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh.
'What the deuce do you mean?'
'The fact is,' Reardon replied, 'I want variety of occupation. Ican't stick at writing for more than a month or two at a time.
It's because I have tried to do so that--well, practically, Ihave broken down. If you will give me this clerkship, it will relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writing novels; Ishall be better for it in every way. You know that I'm equal to the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall be more useful than most clerks you could get.'
It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute more of pause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His face burned, his tongue was parched.
'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought--but of course, if you really want it. I can hardly believe yet that you're serious, Reardon.'
'Why not? Will you promise me the work?'
'Well, yes.'
'When shall I have to begin?'
