Alfred walked slowly along the moist, greasy pavement in the November
evening. A slight drizzle was falling and he turned up the collar of his
overcoat. The streets were slimy and dirty. The gas-lamps threw out a
golden halo on the damp air, their yellow light splashing on wet roads
and flag-stones. It was past six o’clock and the traffic was
considerable. Alfred made his way to an hotel in a back street, a place
he had only once or twice visited before, and where there was little
chance of his meeting anyone he knew. He wanted to think things over
before he took his next step. He dined most indifferently, and after
dinner sat down on a lounge at the back of the bar. At first he had the
place to himself, but presently two or three commercial travellers
entered and stood about the counter drinking and talking. Their
flamboyant vulgarity filled the air, amazing, bewildering; and Alfred
watched them with a sombre face. He felt depressed, and the whiskies and
sodas he had drunk at dinner had done nothing to make him more cheerful.
He ordered another now, but it did not dispel his gloom. The thing was
ridiculous, absurd!--what could _he_ do in the colonies? Yet he knew
there would be little use in making an appeal to his father: his father
was obstinate to the verge of idiotcy, and Alfred had never yet seen
him draw back from any decision he had once come to. In the present
instance, he felt, he would be especially pertinacious; he was probably
only too glad of an excuse to be rid of him; he had wanted to get rid of
him for some time back; he had always hated him. As he brooded over
this, becoming more and more certain of it, Alfred felt like catching
him by the throat. His thoughts travelled round and round in the little,
dreary circle of the wrongs that had been done him, and the injustices
he had suffered from, till they began to torture him like a probed sore.
Yes, he was perfectly sure his father would keep his word. It was not as
if he were the only child, or even the only son. There was Denis, and
still more there was John Brooke. His whole soul rose up in hatred of
the bastard. The old man would probably leave the business to John, who
was just such a creature as he would like to give everything to. In the
meantime he might even take him into partnership; things had been
shaping in that direction all along. If only his father were to die; to
meet with some accident--some accident with the motor say! But quite
apart from accidents, he had an idea that Mr. Bracknel was not at all so
well as he pretended to be; there was something which he kept secret,
but of which, nevertheless, he was afraid. Alfred had gathered that a
long time ago, from many little things that had occurred. But of course
such speculations were futile, the idlest dreams.
A few more stragglers had by this time wandered in, their presence being
highly resented by Alfred. There was one in particular, one of the
original group of commercial travellers, who irritated him to fury; a
man with a fatuous, perpetual laugh, a pale face, a waxed moustache, and
a ring which he wore on his little finger. This little finger he held
gracefully curled when he raised his tumbler to drink, and on each
occasion Alfred felt an almost irresistible longing to bring his
pleasant evening to a close. One good straight knock would do it. He
stretched out his powerful arm and stiffened its muscles. He got up and
strolled over towards his victim. That unfortunate person, leaning
languidly against the counter, gave another twist to his moustache as
Alfred approached. He eyed Alfred a moment and then half turned to the
barmaid. “Upon my word we did; we thought nothing of a thing like that.
I remember once in London--some of us were going the pace a bit,
and----”
Alfred brushed up against him and turned round slowly. “What the devil
do you mean?” he asked, with a stare that showed the whites of his eyes.
There was perhaps something strange in his face, for the man with the
waxed moustache and the ring apologized, and the tale of his romance in
London died lamentably upon his lips. Alfred still lingered near him,
and a curious hush came over the whole group. In a minute or two one of
them discovered they would be late for an appointment. He announced the
fact with a kind of nervous air of taking the company at large into his
confidence. The others were astonished; nobody had had any idea it was
so late; time had positively flown! They departed, not very brilliantly,
and Alfred, the triumphant male, feeling a little better, strolled back
to his lounge, perfectly indifferent to the encouraging glances of the
impressionable barmaid.
But this improvement in his spirits was very transitory. He took up the
_Evening Telegraph_ and flung it away. He lit a cigar and smoked
savagely, with his brows knit and his eyes on the floor. He had one or
two more drinks before taking his departure. Outside it was raining
quietly but heavily, and as he walked down the street he did not know
what he was going to do next. Should he go home? Should he go to a
music-hall? Should he have a game of cards? Suddenly it occurred to him
to go back to the office. He had some things there he must get. He had
not thought of them before, and he would rather get them now than return
in the morning. The fumes of the drink he had taken had begun, once he
was in the open air, to cloud his brain a little. He paced sullenly on
till he reached the tall dark building which at present turned a blank
face to the dreary, murky night. The few people he met were hurrying by,
bent on their own business, or on getting as soon as possible into
shelter. He paid no attention to them. He fitted the key in the outer
door and it turned easily. Only a single lock was fastened, therefore
there must be somebody inside. But the place was in darkness; the only
light there was streamed out through the half-open door of Mr.
Bracknel’s private office, and Alfred at once concluded that his father
was working late--working alone, as very often happened.
His first idea was to get away without his father’s knowledge, and he
wondered that Mr. Bracknel had not already come out to see who was
there. Surely he must have heard the opening of the door! But he did not
make his appearance, and presently, as if by instinct, silently, on
tip-toe, Alfred stole past the open door and on into the rear of the
building. Here he suddenly stood still, for he had heard a step
overhead--someone was coming downstairs. Alfred remained motionless and
noiseless as a statue. He had already forgotten why he had come back to
the place; his thoughts now--obscure and dreamy--were wholly occupied
with Mr. Bracknel, with the amazing possibilities sometimes dependent
on absurdly slight things. Perfectly hidden himself, he watched his
father descend the stairs. He saw him go on into the office, the door of
which he now left wide open, as if he did not intend to work much
longer. He had probably been up to the lavatory and was going home. But
as Alfred watched him he sat down in front of the fire and began to turn
over some papers. The sight of this appeared for some reason to affect
his son powerfully. It was as if it brought home to him in a single,
swift, bright vision, the clear, intolerable realisation of all he was
losing, and he felt a sudden recklessness which blotted out everything
else. He marched straight to the office and entered without ceremony. He
had at least the satisfaction of startling his father, for Mr. Bracknel
jumped to his feet, scattering his papers into the fender and over the
floor. Wheeling round, he recognised the intruder, and his fat sallow
face grew black as thunder. His momentary fear turned to an
extraordinary rage.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, speaking below his breath.
Alfred smiled unpleasantly. “I came to say that it isn’t good enough,”
he answered impudently.
“What isn’t good enough?”
“Your miserable thousand. It’s too thin--the whole idea.” He sat down on
the leather-covered writing-table and eyed his father disagreeably.
Mr. Bracknel took a step toward him. “Get out of this,” he threatened,
in the same low husky voice. “Drunken blackguard!” It was visible that
he was making an immense effort to control himself. “Go--or I’ll call a
policeman.”
But Alfred only laughed. “I can make it damned unpleasant for you, you
know,” he remarked expressively. “If I tell the mater about your
bastard, for instance--and in a good many other ways too. No, you’ll
really have to do something a lot better if you want to get rid of me.”
Even in the present low state of his fortunes he was capable of deriving
a genuine pleasure from his father’s excitement. The situation struck
him as extremely piquant. He produced his cigarette case.
Mr. Bracknel made another movement towards him. His face was now purple,
and the veins of his forehead and neck were swollen unpleasantly. A
flake of froth actually appeared at the corner of his mouth. He raised
his hand as if he were about to strike his son, and at the same instant
stopped. For a moment he stood quite still, while his lips twitched, and
his whole face was drawn as with some sharp sudden pain. Then he grasped
at the table, missed it, and fell on the floor.
Alfred gazed down at him callously, curiously, watching the colour ebb
from his face and leave it a pale, sickly, waxy yellow. Mr. Bracknel lay
almost upon his back. His eyes were wide open, and he breathed slowly
and noisily, a phenomenon which appeared to interest Alfred keenly, so
that he made no attempt whatever to interrupt it. A good many thoughts,
suggested possibly by this strange breathing, passed through his mind.
He seemed to have become miraculously sober. He gazed down at his father
lying there, the odd, foolish noise he was making becoming fainter, and
his lips turning blue; but he saw something far different, something
that shone out extraordinarily brightly, the vision of a life perfectly
free and delightful, with plenty of money, more than enough, all that he
might ever have expected. And without waiting--without waiting--that
was the great thing! A swift train of desires flitted by him and he saw
them one by one gratified. He saw, too, justice being done, the humbling
of John Brooke. He tasted in anticipation the joy of a long-deferred
revenge, the payment of a double grudge. And the only thing that
prevented all these dreams from coming true was one little paltry life
that was perhaps even now dying out. It was incredible! A life that no
one would regret, a life that must be a burden to itself! And all he had
to do was simply not to interfere, simply to leave it to Providence. His
vision seemed to materialize in the air before him, and he glared at it
with hard, intent eyes, in which there was no shadow of compunction. It
fascinated him, it drummed in his ears and swam before his gaze. And all
this time (the hands of the clock had travelled quite a long distance!)
he remained absolutely still--as still as if he too had ceased to
breathe.
For no sound came now from the dark, limp heap upon the floor. Moved by
a morbid curiosity, he bent lower over his father. Mr. Bracknel was not
very pleasant to look at. His face had turned an ash-grey colour and his
bulging eyes were fixed and glazed. His jaw, too, had dropped, leaving
the tongue slightly visible between the false teeth.
Alfred sat down on a chair and began to think. If his father were to
show any serious signs of reviving he might have to get him some medical
assistance: if he did not show such signs--well, then it would be better
if he could get away from the office unseen. At present Mr. Bracknel
looked as if, were he left alone, he would behave perfectly sensibly.
Alfred resolved to wait.
He glanced at the clock on the chimney-piece. The hands pointed to
twenty minutes past nine. He waited for what appeared to be a very long
time before he heard the hour strike. Then he got down on his knees and
examined his father more closely. He unfastened his waistcoat, his
shirt, his vest, and slipped in his hand: he put his ear close: he could
hear no faintest beating of his heart, he could hear no faintest sound
of his breathing. He lifted one of the arms and let it drop. It fell
dead, and the hand he had touched was quite cold. So was the face--cold
as ice, and covered with a clammy sweat. Alfred decided that it was all
over. He rearranged his father’s clothes and sat down once more in his
chair. It would not do to call a doctor: a doctor might find out that
his father had been dead for some time, and that might, you never knew,
lead to awkwardness of some kind. Worse still, a doctor would perhaps
drag him back to life again and so spoil everything. He glanced about
the office. Should he let himself out now or wait till later? He came to
the conclusion that it would be better to wait. He had begun,
instinctively, to avoid looking at the dark, limp heap lying on the
floor, with its upturned face and wide staring eyes. It had been there
for a long time now. The heavy seals of its watch-chain glistened in the
gas-light: there was something ugly and unpleasant about it--it had not
moved for so long--and presently he betook himself to the darkness of
the outer office. He had a curious sense that everything was much
quieter than usual, except the ticking of the clock, which somehow
sounded unnaturally loud. He had begun to wonder how many thousands a
year he was worth, when suddenly he heard the clear, high ring of the
telephone bell. The unexpected noise in the dark, still place gave him a
disagreeable shock. His nerves were not so well under control as he had
imagined. The bell rang twice again and then was silent. Alfred sat on
alone in the darkness.
One--two--three--eleven strokes. The striking of the hour seemed to come
to him from all sides. The traffic in the street had by this time
practically ceased. Only very seldom since he had been waiting had he
heard a foot-fall. He peeped out presently from behind the blind. It was
still raining heavily. There was a lamp just in front of the door, but
he could see nobody, hear nobody. He resolved to run a slight risk, and
going to the door he opened it gently and again listened. Nothing but
the rain. The next moment he was outside and had turned the key in the
lock. A minute later and he felt he was safe. A feeling of extraordinary
exultation took possession of him. He was a rich man; his own master;
all life lay before him.
That night, when he went upstairs to bed, his wife asked him sleepily
what time it was, but for answer Alfred only kissed her.