even thus late.
On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John’s return by a certain train, but no scrap of news was added.
‘Just like that irritating boy! We must go to the station to meet him. You’ll come, won’t you, Amy?’
Amy readily consented, for she too had hopes, though circumstances blurred them. Mother and daughter were walking about the platform half an hour before the train was due; their agitation would have been manifest to anyone observing them. When at length the train rolled in and John was discovered, they pressed eagerly upon him.
‘Don’t you excite yourself,’ he said gruffly to his mother. ‘There’s no reason whatever.’
Mrs Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab, and took places with him.
‘Now don’t be provoking, Jack. Just tell us at once.’
‘By all means. You haven’t a penny.’
‘I haven’t? You are joking, ridiculous boy!’
‘Never felt less disposed to, I assure you.’
After staring out of the window for a minute or two, he at length informed Amy of the extent to which she profited by her uncle’s decease, then made known what was bequeathed to himself. His temper grew worse every moment, and he replied savagely to each successive question concerning the other items of the will.
‘What have you to grumble about?’ asked Amy, whose face was exultant notwithstanding the drawbacks attaching to her good fortune. ‘If Uncle Alfred receives nothing at all, and mother has nothing, you ought to think yourself very lucky.’
‘It’s very easy for you to say that, with your ten thousand.’
‘But is it her own?’ asked Mrs Yule. ‘Is it for her separate use?’
‘Of course it is. She gets the benefit of last year’s Married Woman’s Property Act. The will was executed in January this year, and I dare say the old curmudgeon destroyed a former one.
‘What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!’ cried Amy. ‘The only one worth anything that I ever heard of.’
‘But my dear—’ began her mother, in a tone of protest. However, she reserved her comment for a more fitting time and place, and merely said: ‘I wonder whether he had heard what has been going on?’
‘Do you think he would have altered his will if he had?’ asked Amy with a smile of security.
‘Why the deuce he should have left you so much in any case is more than I can understand,’ growled her brother. ‘What’s the use to me of a paltry thousand or two? It isn’t enough to invest; isn’t enough to do anything with.’
‘You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five thousand good for something,’ said Mrs Yule. ‘Who was at the funeral? Don’t be so surly, Jack; tell us all about it. I’m sure if anyone has cause to be ill-tempered it’s poor me.’
Thus they talked, amid the rattle of the cab-wheels. By when they reached home silence had fallen upon them, and each one was sufficiently occupied with private thoughts.
Mrs Yule’s servants had a terrible time of it for the next few days. Too affectionate to turn her ill-temper against John and Amy, she relieved herself by severity to the domestic slaves, as an English matron is of course justified in doing. Her daughter’s position caused her even more concern than before; she constantly lamented to herself: ‘Oh, why didn’t he die before she was married!’—in which case Amy would never have dreamt of wedding a penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the new aspect of things until twenty-four hours after John’s return; then she said:
‘I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what I shall do then I don’t know.’
‘You are sure to hear from Edwin,’ opined Mrs Yule.
‘I think not. He isn’t the kind of man to behave in that way.’
‘Then I suppose you are bound to take the first step?’
‘That I shall never do.’
She said so, but the sudden happiness of finding herself wealthy was not without its softening effect on Amy’s feelings. Generous impulses alternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her husband in his squalid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries and disillusions, and to play the part of a generous wife. It would be possible now for them to go abroad and spend a year or two in healthful travel; the result in Reardon’s case might be wonderful. He might recover all the energy of his imagination, and resume his literary career from the point he had reached at the time of his marriage.
On the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse into a life of scholarly self-indulgence, such as he had often told her was his ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay before her! Ten thousand pounds sounded well, but what did it represent in reality? A poor four hundred a year, perhaps; mere decency of obscure existence, unless her husband could glorify it by winning fame. If he did nothing, she would be the wife of a man who had failed in literature. She would not be able to take a place in society. Life would be supported without struggle; nothing more to be hoped.
This view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the second day, she went to communicate her news to Mrs Carter. This amiable lady had now become what she always desired to be, Amy’s intimate friend; they saw each other very frequently, and conversed of most things with much frankness. It was between eleven and twelve in the morning when Amy paid her visit, and she found Mrs Carter on the point of going out.
‘I was coming to see you,’ cried Edith. ‘Why haven’t you let me know of what has happened?’
‘You have heard, I suppose?’
‘Albert heard from your brother.’
