Instead of making for the railway station, to take a train back to
Dudley, he crossed from the northern to the southern extremity of the
town, and by ten o'clock was in one of the streets which lead out of
Moseley Road. Here, at a house such as lodges young men in business, he
made inquiry for "Mr. Narramore," and was forthwith admitted.
Robert Narramore, a long-stemmed pipe at his lips, sat by the fireside;
on the table lay the materials of a satisfactory supper--a cold fowl, a
ham, a Stilton cheese, and a bottle of wine.
"Hollo! You?" he exclaimed, without rising. "I was going to write to
you; thanks for saving me the trouble. Have something to eat?"
"Yes, and to drink likewise."
"Do you mind ringing the bell? I believe there's a bottle of Burgundy
left. If not, plenty of Bass."
He stretched forth a languid hand, smiling amiably. Narramore was the
image of luxurious indolence; he had pleasant features, dark hair
inclined to curliness, a well-built frame set off by good tailoring.
His income from the commercial house in which he held a post of
responsibility would have permitted him to occupy better quarters than
these; but here he had lived for ten years, and he preferred a few
inconveniences to the trouble of moving. Trouble of any kind was
Robert's bugbear. His progress up the commercial ladder seemed due
rather to the luck which favours amiable and good-looking young fellows
than to any special ability or effort of his own. The very sound of his
voice had a drowsiness which soothed--if it did not irritate--the
listener.
"Tell them to lay out the truckle-bed," said Hilliard, when he had
pulled the bell. "I shall stay here to-night."
"Good!"
Their talk was merely interjectional, until the visitor had begun to
appease his hunger and had drawn the cork of a second bottle of bitter
ale.
"This is a great day," Hilliard then exclaimed. "I left Dudley this
afternoon feeling ready to cut my throat. Now I'm a free man, with the
world before me."
"How's that?"
"Emily's going to take a second husband--that's one thing."
"Heaven be praised! Better than one could have looked for."
Hilliard related the circumstances. Then he drew from his pocket an
oblong slip of paper, and held it out.
"Dengate?" cried his friend. "How the deuce did you get hold of this?"
Explanation followed. They debated Dengate's character and motives.
"I can understand it," said Narramore. "When I was a boy of twelve I
once cheated an apple-woman out of three-halfpence. At the age of
sixteen I encountered the old woman again, and felt immense
satisfaction in giving her a shilling. But then, you see, I had done
with petty cheating; I wished to clear my conscience, and look my
fellow-woman in the face."
"That's it, no doubt. He seems to have got some sort of position in
Liverpool society, and he didn't like the thought that there was a poor
devil at Dudley who went about calling him a scoundrel. By-the-bye,
someone told him that I had taken to liquor, and was on my way to
destruction generally. I don't know who it could be."
"Oh, we all have candid friends that talk about us.
"It's true I have been drunk now and then of late. There's much to be
said for getting drunk."
"Much," assented Narramore, philosophically.
Hilliard went on with his supper; his friend puffed tobacco, and idly
regarded the cheque he was still holding.
"And what are you going to do?" he asked at length.
There came no reply, and several minutes passed in silence. Then
Hilliard rose from the table, paced the floor once or twice, selected a
cigar from a box that caught his eye, and, in cutting off the end,
observed quietly--
"I'm going to live."
"Wait a minute. We'll have the table cleared, and a kettle on the fire."
While the servant was busy, Hilliard stood with an elbow on the
mantelpiece, thoughtfully smoking his cigar. At Narramore's request, he
mixed two tumblers of whisky toddy, then took a draught from his own,
and returned to his former position.
"Can't you sit down?" said Narramore.
"No, I can't."
"What a fellow you are! With nerves like yours, I should have been in
my grave years ago. You're going to live, eh?"
"Going to be a machine no longer. Can I call myself a man? There's
precious little difference between a fellow like me and the damned
grinding mechanism that I spend my days in drawing--that roars all day
in my ears and deafens me. I'll put an end to that. Here's four hundred
pounds. It shall mean four hundred pounds'-worth of life. While this
money lasts, I'll feel that I'm a human being."
"Something to be said for that," commented the listener, in his tone of
drowsy impartiality.
"I offered Emily half of it. She didn't want to take it, and the man
Marr wouldn't let her. I offered to lay it aside for the child, but
Marr wouldn't have that either, It's fairly mine."
"Undoubtedly."
"Think! The first time in my life that I've had money on which no one
else had a claim. When the poor old father died, Will and I had to go
shares in keeping up the home. Our sister couldn't earn anything; she
had her work set in attending to her mother. When mother died, and
Marian married, it looked as if I had only myself to look after: then
came Will's death, and half my income went to keep his wife and child
from the workhouse. You know very well I've never grudged it. It's my
faith that we do what we do because anything else would be less
agreeable. It was more to my liking to live on a pound a week than to
see Emily and the little lass suffer want. I've no right to any thanks
or praise for it. But the change has come none too soon. There'd have
been a paragraph in the Dudley paper some rainy morning."
"Yes, I was rather afraid of that," said Narramore musingly.
He let a minute elapse, whilst his friend paced the room; then added in
the same voice:
"We're in luck at the same tune. My uncle Sol was found dead this
morning."
"Do you come in for much?"
"We don't know what he's left, but I'm down for a substantial fraction
in a will he made three years ago. Nobody knew it, but he's been stark
mad for the last six months. He took a bed-room out Bordesley way, in a
false name, and stored it with a ton or two of tinned meats and
vegetables. There the landlady found him lying dead this morning; she
learnt who he was from the papers in his pocket. It's come out that he
had made friends with some old boozer of that neighbourhood; he told
him that England was on the point of a grand financial smash, and that
half the population would die of hunger. To secure himself, he began to
lay in the stock of tinned provisions. One can't help laughing, poor
old chap! That's the result, you see, of a life spent in sweating for
money. As a young man he had hard times, and when his invention
succeeded, it put him off balance a bit. I've often thought he had a
crazy look in his eye. He may have thrown away a lot of his money in
mad tricks: who knows?"
"That's the end the human race will come to," said Hilliard. "It'll be
driven mad and killed off by machinery. Before long there'll be
machines for washing and dressing people--machines for feeding
them--machines for----"
His wrathful imagination led him to grotesque ideas which ended in
laughter.
"Well, I have a year or two before me. I'll know what enjoyment means.
And afterwards----"
"Yes; what afterwards?"
"I don't know. I may choose to come back; I may prefer to make an end.
Impossible to foresee my state of mind after living humanly for a year
or two. And what shall _you_ do if you come in for a lot of money?"
"It's not likely to be more than a few thousands," replied Narramore.
"And the chances are I shall go on in the old way. What's the good of a
few thousands? I haven't the energy to go off and enjoy myself in your
fashion. One of these days I may think of getting married, and
marriage, you know, is devilish expensive. I should like to have three
or four thousand a year; you can't start housekeeping on less, if
you're not to be bored to death with worries. Perhaps I may get a
partnership in our house. I began life in the brass bedstead line, and
I may as well stick to brass bedsteads to the end the demand isn't
likely to fall off. Please fill my glass again."
Hilliard, the while, had tossed off his second tumbler. He began to
talk at random.
"I shall go to London first of all. I may go abroad. Reckon a pound a
day. Three hundred and--how many days are there in a year? Three
hundred and sixty-five. That doesn't allow me two years. I want two
years of life. Half a sovereign a day, then. One can do a good deal
with half a sovereign a day--don't you think?"
"Not very much, if you're particular about your wine."
"Wine doesn't matter. Honest ale and Scotch whisky will serve well
enough. Understand me; I'm not going in for debauchery, and I'm not
going to play the third-rate swell. There's no enjoyment in making a
beast of oneself, and none for me in strutting about the streets like
an animated figure out of a tailor's window. I want to know the taste
of free life, human life. I want to forget that I ever sat at a desk,
drawing to scale--drawing damned machines. I want to----"
He checked himself. Narramore looked at him with curiosity.
"It's a queer thing to me, Hilliard," he remarked, when his friend
turned away, "that you've kept so clear of women. Now, anyone would
think you were just the fellow to get hobbled in that way."
"I daresay," muttered the other. "Yes, it _is_ a queer thing. I have
been saved, I suppose, by the necessity of supporting my relatives.
I've seen so much of women suffering from poverty that it has got me
into the habit of thinking of them as nothing but burdens to a man."
"As they nearly always are."
"Yes, nearly always."
Narramore pondered with his amiable smile; the other, after a moment's
gloom, shook himself free again, and talked with growing exhilaration
of the new life that had dawned before him.