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Chapter 2 The parting

  • Amy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as a mere matte_f course, accompanying her mother, but Reardon's attitude with regard to th_opular religion speedily became her own; she let the subject lapse from he_ind, and cared neither to defend nor to attack where dogma was concerned. Sh_ad no sympathies with mysticism; her nature was strongly practical, wit_omething of zeal for intellectual attainment superadded.
  • This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae. Reardon notice_hat looked like preparations for packing, and being as little disposed fo_onversation as his wife, he went out and walked for a couple of hours in th_ampstead region. Dinner over, Amy at once made ready for her journey t_estbourne Park.
  • 'Then you won't come?' she said to her husband.
  • 'No. I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don't care to till yo_ave settled everything.'
  • It was half a year since he had met Mrs Yule. She never came to thei_welling, and Reardon could not bring himself to visit her.
  • 'You had very much rather we didn't sell the furniture?' Amy asked.
  • 'Ask your mother's opinion. That shall decide.'
  • 'There'll be the expense of moving it, you know. Unless money comes from Th_ayside, you'll only have two or three pounds left.'
  • Reardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of shame.
  • 'I shall say, then,' pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face, 'that I am t_o there for good on Tuesday? I mean, of course, for the summer months.'
  • 'I suppose so.'
  • Then he turned suddenly upon her.
  • 'Do you really imagine that at the end of the summer I shall be a rich man?
  • What do you mean by talking in this way? If the furniture is sold to supply m_ith a few pounds for the present, what prospect is there that I shall be abl_o buy new?'
  • 'How can we look forward at all?' replied Amy. 'It has come to the question o_ow we are to subsist. I thought you would rather get money in this way tha_orrow of mother—when she has the expense of keeping me and Willie.'
  • 'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy was in her mos_ractical mood, and would not linger for purposeless talk. A few minutes, an_eardon was left alone.
  • He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes which h_ould take away with him. Just a few, the indispensable companions of _ookish man who still clings to life—his Homer, his Shakespeare—
  • The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow morning. Al_ogether they might bring him a couple of sovereigns.
  • Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a wife; hi_ardrobe was in as good a state as circumstances allowed. But there was n_bject in burdening himself with winter garments, for, if he lived through th_ummer at all, he would be able to repurchase such few poor things as wer_eedful; at present he could only think of how to get together a few coins. S_e made a heap of such things as might be sold.
  • The furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more than ten o_welve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in this way his summer'_iving would be abundantly provided for.
  • He thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could support life o_hree or four shillings a week, happy in the thought that no mortal had _laim upon him. If he starved to death—well, many another lonely man has com_o that end. If he preferred to kill himself, who would be distressed? Spoil_hild of fortune!
  • The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service. In th_dleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons, and he marvelle_hat there were people who could imagine it a duty or find it a solace to g_nd sit in that twilight church and listen to the droning of prayers. H_hought of the wretched millions of mankind to whom life is so barren tha_hey must needs believe in a recompense beyond the grave. For that he neithe_ooked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that this world might be _ufficing paradise to him if only he could clutch a poor little share o_urrent coin. He had won the world's greatest prize—a woman's love —but coul_ot retain it because his pockets were empty.
  • That he should fail to make a great name, this was grievous disappointment t_my, but this alone would not have estranged her. It was the dread and sham_f penury that made her heart cold to him. And he could not in his conscienc_corn her for being thus affected by the vulgar circumstances of life; only _ew supreme natures stand unshaken under such a trial, and though his love o_my was still passionate, he knew that her place was among a certain class o_omen, and not on the isolated pinnacle where he had at first visioned her. I_as entirely natural that she shrank at the test of squalid suffering. _ittle money, and he could have rested secure in her love, for then he woul_ave been able to keep ever before her the best qualities of his heart an_rain. Upon him, too, penury had its debasing effect; as he now presente_imself he was not a man to be admired or loved. It was all simple an_ntelligible enough—a situation that would be misread only by shallo_dealism.
  • Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and promise o_uccess. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it was impossible for hi_ot to see that she habitually contrasted the young journalist, who laughingl_ade his way among men, with her grave, dispirited husband, who was not eve_apable of holding such position as he had gained. She enjoyed Milvain'_onversation, it put her into a good humour; she liked him personally, an_here could be no doubt that she had observed a jealous tendency in Reardon'_ttitude to his former friend— always a harmful suggestion to a woman.
  • Formerly she had appreciated her husband's superiority; she had smiled a_ilvain's commoner stamp of mind and character. But tedious repetition o_ailure had outwearied her, and now she saw Milvain in the sunshine o_rogress, dwelt upon the worldly advantages of gifts and a temperament such a_is. 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 a_rs Yule's, and would not do so less often when he knew that Amy was to be me_here. There would be chance encounters like that of yesterday, of which sh_ad chosen to keep silence.
  • A dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to stress o_ircumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger which outweighed al_he ills of poverty? As one to whom she was inestimably dear, was he right i_llowing her to leave him, if only for a few months? He knew very well that _an of strong character would never have entertained this project. He had go_nto the way of thinking of himself as too weak to struggle against th_bstacles on which Amy insisted, and of looking for safety in retreat; bu_hat was to be the end of this weakness if the summer did not at all advanc_im? He knew better than Amy could how unlikely it was that he should recove_he energies of his mind in so short a time and under such circumstances; onl_he feeble man's temptation to postpone effort had made him consent to thi_tep, and now that he was all but beyond turning back, the perils of which h_ad thought too little forced themselves upon his mind.
  • He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might somewhere b_isible.
  • Presently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he beheld th_ivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two or three calls her_ince Reardon's marriage; his appearance was a surprise.
  • 'I hear you are leaving town for a time,' he exclaimed. 'Edith told m_esterday, so I thought I'd look you up.'
  • He was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast between hi_rosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited quietness could not hav_een more striking.
  • 'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working too hard, yo_now. 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. 'I thought of _ew weeks—somewhere at the seaside.'
  • 'I advise you to go north,' went on Carter cheerily. 'You want a tonic, yo_now. 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, yo_now; 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'_ook at all well, that's the fact. A winter in London tries any man—it doe_e, I know. I've been seedy myself these last few weeks. Edith wants me t_ake her over to Paris at the end of this month, and I think it isn't a ba_dea; but I'm so confoundedly busy. In the autumn we shall go to Norway, _hink; it seems to be the right thing to do nowadays. Why shouldn't you have _un over to Norway? They say it can be done very cheaply; the steamers tak_ou 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 coul_ake 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 th_ospital in the City Road?'
  • 'No; I hadn't heard of it.'
  • 'It'll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three evening_lternately.'
  • '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 o_ertain 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, joinin_n 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 tak_oney 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. I can't stic_t writing for more than a month or two at a time. It's because I have trie_o do so that—well, practically, I have broken down. If you will give me thi_lerkship, it will relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writin_ovels; I shall be better for it in every way. You know that I'm equal to th_ob; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall be more useful than most clerk_ou 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 wa_arched.
  • 'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought—but of course, if yo_eally 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?'
  • 'The place'll be opened to-morrow week. But how about your holiday?'
  • 'Oh, let that stand over. It'll be holiday enough to occupy myself in a ne_ay. An old way, too; I shall enjoy it.'
  • He laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to what seemed a_nd of his difficulties. For half an hour they continued to talk over th_ffair.
  • 'Well, it's a comical idea,' said Carter, as he took his leave, 'but you kno_our own business best.'
  • When Amy returned, Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed before h_ought any conversation. She came at length and sat down in the study.
  • 'Mother advises us not to sell the furniture,' were her first words.
  • 'I'm glad of that, as I had quite made up my mind not to.' There was a chang_n his way of speaking which she at once noticed.
  • 'Have you thought of something?'
  • 'Yes. Carter has been here, and he happened to mention that they're opening a_ut-patient department of the hospital, in the City Road. He'll want someon_o help him there. I asked for the post, and he promised it me.'
  • The last words were hurried, though he had resolved to speak wit_eliberation. No more feebleness; he had taken a decision, and would act upo_t as became a responsible man.
  • 'The post?' said Amy. 'What post?'
  • 'In plain English, the clerkship. It'll be the same work as I used t_ave—registering patients, receiving their "letters," and so on. The pay is t_e five-and-twenty shillings a week.'
  • Amy sat upright and looked steadily at him.
  • 'Is this a joke?'
  • 'Far from it, dear. It's a blessed deliverance.'
  • 'You have asked Mr Carter to take you back as a clerk?'
  • 'I have.'
  • 'And you propose that we shall live on twenty-five shillings a week?'
  • 'Oh no! I shall be engaged only three mornings in the week and three evenings.
  • In my free time I shall do literary work, and no doubt I can earn fifty pound_ year by it—if I have your sympathy to help me. To-morrow I shall go and loo_or rooms some distance from here; in Islington, I think. We have been livin_ar beyond our means; that must come to an end. We'll have no more keeping u_f sham appearances. If I can make my way in literature, well and good; i_hat case our position and prospects will of course change. But for th_resent we are poor people, and must live in a poor way. If our friends lik_o come and see us, they must put aside all snobbishness, and take us as w_re. If they prefer not to come, there'll be an excuse in our remoteness.'
  • Amy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she said in _ery quiet, but very resolute tone:
  • 'I shall not consent to this.'
  • 'In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms will be taken, and our furniture transferred to them.'
  • 'To me that will make no difference,' returned his wife, in the same voice a_efore. 'I have decided—as you told me to—to go with Willie to mother's nex_uesday. You, of course, must do as you please. I should have thought a summe_t the seaside would have been more helpful to you; but if you prefer to liv_n Islington—'
  • Reardon approached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder.
  • 'Amy, are you my wife, or not?'
  • 'I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who is paid so much a week.'
  • He had foreseen a struggle, but without certainty of the form Amy's oppositio_ould take. For himself he meant to be gently resolute, calmly regardless o_rotest. But in a man to whom such self-assertion is a matter of consciou_ffort, tremor of the nerves will always interfere with the line of conduct h_as conceived in advance. Already Reardon had spoken with far more bluntnes_han he proposed; involuntarily, his voice slipped from earnest determinatio_o the note of absolutism, and, as is wont to be the case, the sound of thes_trange tones instigated him to further utterances of the same kind. He los_ontrol of himself. Amy's last reply went through him like an electric shock, and for the moment he was a mere husband defied by his wife, the male stung t_xertion of his brute force against the physically weaker sex.
  • 'However you regard me, you will do what I think fit. I shall not argue wit_ou. If I choose to take lodgings in Whitechapel, there you will come an_ive.'
  • He met Amy's full look, and was conscious of that in it which corresponded t_is own brutality. She had become suddenly a much older woman; her cheeks wer_ight drawn into thinness, her lips were bloodlessly hard, there was a_nknown furrow along her forehead, and she glared like the animal that defend_tself with tooth and claw.
  • 'Do as YOU think fit? Indeed!'
  • Could Amy's voice sound like that? Great Heaven! With just such accent he ha_eard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at the street corner. Is ther_hen no essential difference between a woman of this world and one of that?
  • Does the same nature lie beneath such unlike surfaces?
  • He had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her up from th_hair, dash her back again with all his force—there, the transformation woul_e complete, they would stand towards each other on the natural footing. Wit_n added curse perhaps— Instead of that, he choked, struggled for breath, an_hed tears.
  • Amy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would have overawe_er, at all events for the moment; she would have felt: 'Yes, he is a man, an_ have put my destiny into his hands.' His tears moved her to a feelin_ruelly exultant; they were the sign of her superiority. It was she who shoul_ave wept, and never in her life had she been further from such display o_eakness.
  • This could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to terminate th_cene. They stood for a minute without regarding each other, then Reardo_aced to her.
  • 'You refuse to live with me, then?'
  • 'Yes, if this is the kind of life you offer me.'
  • 'You would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes than to declar_o everyone that you had deserted him?'
  • 'I shall "declare to everyone" the simple truth. You have the opportunity o_aking one more effort to save us from degradation. You refuse to take th_rouble; you prefer to drag me down into a lower rank of life. I can't an_on't consent to that. The disgrace is yours; it's fortunate for me that _ave a decent home to go to.'
  • 'Fortunate for you!—you make yourself unutterably contemptible. I have don_othing that justifies you in leaving me. It is for me to judge what I can d_nd what I can't. A good woman would see no degradation in what I ask of you.
  • But to run away from me just because I am poorer than you ever thought _hould be—'
  • He was incoherent. A thousand passionate things that he wished to say clashe_ogether in his mind and confused his speech. Defeated in the attempt to ac_ike a strong man, he could not yet recover standing-ground, knew not how t_one his utterances.
  • 'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it,' said Amy. 'That's how you wil_epresent me to your friends. My friends will see it in a different light.'
  • 'They will regard you as a martyr?'
  • 'No one shall make a martyr of me, you may be sure. I was unfortunate enoug_o marry a man who had no delicacy, no regard for my feelings.—I am not th_irst woman who has made a mistake of this kind.'
  • 'No delicacy? No regard for your feelings?—Have I always utterly misunderstoo_ou? Or has poverty changed you to a woman I can't recognise?'
  • He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle of it showe_usceptibility to the old influences.
  • 'Do you know, Amy,' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part now, we par_or ever?'
  • 'I'm afraid that is only too likely.'
  • She moved aside.
  • 'You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for nothing but ho_o make yourself free.'
  • 'I shall argue no more. I am tired to death of it.'
  • 'Then say nothing, but listen for the last time to my view of the position w_ave come to. When I consented to leave you for a time, to go away and try t_ork in solitude, I was foolish and even insincere, both to you and to myself.
  • I knew that I was undertaking the impossible. It was just putting off the evi_ay, that was all—putting off the time when I should have to say plainly: "_an't live by literature, so I must look out for some other employment." _houldn't have been so weak but that I knew how you would regard such _ecision as that. I was afraid to tell the truth—afraid. Now, when Carter of _udden put this opportunity before me, I saw all the absurdity of th_rrangements we had made. It didn't take me a moment to make up my mind.
  • Anything was to be chosen rather than a parting from you on false pretences, _idiculous affectation of hope where there was no hope.'
  • He paused, and saw that his words had no effect upon her.
  • 'And a grievous share of the fault lies with you, Amy. You remember very wel_hen I first saw how dark the future was. I was driven even to say that w_ught to change our mode of living; I asked you if you would be willing t_eave this place and go into cheaper rooms. And you know what your answer was.
  • Not a sign in you that you would stand by me if the worst came. I knew the_hat I had to look forward to, but I durst not believe it. I kept saying t_yself: "She loves me, and as soon as she really understands—" That was al_elf-deception. If I had been a wise man, I should have spoken to you in a wa_ou couldn't mistake. I should have told you that we were living recklessly, and that I had determined to alter it. I have no delicacy? No regard for you_eelings? Oh, if I had had less! I doubt whether you can even understand som_f the considerations that weighed with me, and made me cowardly—though I onc_hought there was no refinement of sensibility that you couldn't enter into.
  • Yes, I was absurd enough to say to myself: "It will look as if I ha_onsciously deceived her; she may suffer from the thought that I won her a_ll hazards, knowing that I should soon expose her to poverty and all sorts o_umiliation." Impossible to speak of that again; I had to struggle desperatel_n, trying to hope. Oh! if you knew—'
  • His voice gave way for an instant.
  • 'I don't understand how you could be so thoughtless and heartless. You kne_hat I was almost mad with anxiety at times. Surely, any woman must have ha_he impulse to give what help was in her power. How could you hesitate? Ha_ou no suspicion of what a relief and encouragement it would be to me, if yo_aid: "Yes, we must go and live in a simpler way?" If only as a proof that yo_oved me, how I should have welcomed that! You helped me in nothing. You thre_ll the responsibility upon me—always bearing in mind, I suppose, that ther_as a refuge for you. Even now, I despise myself for saying such things o_ou, though I know so bitterly that they are true. It takes a long time to se_ou as such a different woman from the one I worshipped. In passion, I ca_ling out violent words, but they don't yet answer to my actual feeling. I_ill be long enough yet before I think contemptuously of you. You know tha_hen a light is suddenly extinguished, the image of it still shows before you_yes. But at last comes the darkness.'
  • Amy turned towards him once more.
  • 'Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am wrong. Do so, an_ will gladly confess it.'
  • 'That you are wrong? I don't see your meaning.'
  • 'You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save me fro_umiliation.'
  • 'Amy, I have done my utmost. I have done more than you can imagine.'
  • 'No. You have toiled on in illness and anxiety—I know that. But a chance i_ffered you now of working in a better way. Till that is tried, you have n_ight to give all up and try to drag me down with you.'
  • 'I don't know how to answer. I have told you so often— You can't understan_e!'
  • 'I can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know that you are s_eady to give in to difficulties. Listen to me, and do as I bid you.' Sh_poke in the strangest tone of command.
  • It was command, not exhortation, but there was no harshness in her voice. 'G_t once to Mr Carter. Tell him you have made a ludicrous mistake—in a fit o_ow spirits; anything you like to say. Tell him you of course couldn't drea_f becoming his clerk. To-night; at once! You understand me, Edwin? Go now, this moment.'
  • 'Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able to despis_e more completely still?'
  • 'I am determined to be your friend, and to save you from yourself. Go at once!
  • Leave all the rest to me. If I have let things take their course till now, i_han't be so in future. The responsibility shall be with me. Only do as I tel_ou'
  • 'You know it's impossible—'
  • 'It is not! I will find money. No one shall be allowed to say that we ar_arting; no one has any such idea yet. You are going away for your health, just three summer months. I have been far more careful of appearances than yo_magine, but you give me credit for so little. I will find the money you need, until you have written another book. I promise; I undertake it. Then I wil_ind another home for us, of the proper kind. You shall have no trouble. Yo_hall give yourself entirely to intellectual things.
  • But Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a report. If he ha_poken, he must contradict what he has said.'
  • 'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it as _eritable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?'
  • 'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through that yo_hould sink to this.'
  • 'But everyone knows that I was a clerk once!'
  • 'Very few people know it. And then that isn't the same thing. It doesn'_atter what one has been in the past. Especially a literary man; everyon_xpects to hear that he was once poor. But to fall from the position you no_ave, and to take weekly wages —you surely can't know how people of my worl_egard that.'
  • 'Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine, and kne_othing whatever of these imbecilities.'
  • 'It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will talk as muc_s you like.'
  • He might perhaps have yielded, but the unemphasised contempt in that las_entence was more than he could bear. It demonstrated to him more completel_han set terms could have done what a paltry weakling he would appear in Amy'_yes if he took his hat down from the peg and set out to obey her orders.
  • 'You are asking too much,' he said, with unexpected coldness. 'If my opinion_re so valueless to you that you dismiss them like those of a troublesom_hild, I wonder you think it worth while to try and keep up appearances abou_e. It is very simple: make known to everyone that you are in no way connecte_ith the disgrace I have brought upon myself. Put an advertisement in th_ewspapers to that effect, if you like—as men do about their wives' debts. _ave chosen my part. I can't stultify myself to please you.'
  • She knew that this was final. His voice had the true ring of shame in revolt.
  • 'Then go your way, and I will go mine!'
  • Amy left the room.
  • When Reardon went into the bedchamber an hour later, he unfolded a chair- bedstead that stood there, threw some rugs upon it, and so lay down to pas_he night. He did not close his eyes. Amy slept for an hour or two befor_awn, and on waking she started up and looked anxiously about the room. Bu_either spoke.
  • There was a pretence of ordinary breakfast; the little servant necessitate_hat. When she saw her husband preparing to go out, Amy asked him to come int_he study.
  • 'How long shall you be away?' she asked, curtly.
  • 'It is doubtful. I am going to look for rooms.'
  • 'Then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back. There's no object, now, i_y staying here till to-morrow.'
  • 'As you please.'
  • 'Do you wish Lizzie still to come?'
  • 'No. Please to pay her wages and dismiss her. Here is some money.'
  • 'I think you had better let me see to that.'
  • He flung the coin on to the table and opened the door. Amy stepped quickl_orward and closed it again.
  • 'This is our good-bye, is it?' she asked, her eyes on the ground.
  • 'As you wish it—yes.'
  • 'You will remember that I have not wished it.'
  • 'In that case, you have only to go with me to the new home.'
  • 'I can't.'
  • 'Then you have made your choice.'
  • She did not prevent his opening the door this time, and he passed out withou_ooking at her.
  • His return was at three in the afternoon. Amy and the child were gone; th_ervant was gone. The table in the dining-room was spread as if for on_erson's meal.
  • He went into the bedroom. Amy's trunks had disappeared. The child's cot wa_overed over. In the study, he saw that the sovereign he had thrown on to th_able still lay in the same place.
  • As it was a very cold day he lit a fire. Whilst it burnt up he sat reading _orn portion of a newspaper, and became quite interested in the report of _ommercial meeting in the City, a thing he would never have glanced at unde_rdinary circumstances. The fragment fell at length from his hands; his hea_rooped; he sank into a troubled sleep.
  • About six he had tea, then began the packing of the few books that were to g_ith him, and of such other things as could be enclosed in box or portmanteau.
  • After a couple of hours of this occupation he could no longer resist hi_eariness, so he went to bed. Before falling asleep he heard the two familia_locks strike eight; this evening they were in unusual accord, and th_uerulous notes from the workhouse sounded between the deeper ones from S_arylebone. Reardon tried to remember when he had last observed this; th_atter seemed to have a peculiar interest for him, and in dreams he worrie_imself with a grotesque speculation thence derived.