With a glance at Miss Ringrose, he raised his hat and passed on.
Hilliard, confused by the rapid rencontre, half annoyed at having been
seen with Patty, and half wishing he had not granted the appointment
for tomorrow, as it might interfere with a visit from the girls, walked
forward in silence.
"So we really sha'n't see you if it's wet tomorrow," said Patty.
"Better not. Eve would be afraid to come, she catches cold so easily."
"It may be fine, like to-day. I do hope----"
She broke off and added:
"Why, isn't that Eve in front?"
Eve it certainly was, walking slowly away from the station, a few yards
in advance of them. They quickened their pace, and Patty caught her
friend by the arm. Eve, startled out of abstraction, stared at her with
eyes of dismay and bloodless cheeks.
"Did I frighten you? Mr. Hilliard has come back with me to ask how you
are. Is your head better?"
"I've just been down to the station--for something to do," said Eve,
her look fixed on Hilliard with what seemed to him a very strange
intensity. "The afternoon was so fine."
"We've had a splendid time," cried Patty. "Mr. Hilliard has shown me
everything."
"I'm so glad. I should only have spoilt it if I had been with you. It's
wretched going about with a headache, and I can't make believe to enjoy
Birmingham."
Eve spoke hurriedly, still regarding Hilliard, who looked upon the
ground.
"Have you been alone all day?" he asked, taking the outer place at her
side, as they walked on.
"Of course--except for the people in the house," was her offhand reply.
"I met Narramore down at the station; he must have passed you. What has
brought him here to-day, I wonder?"
Appearing not to heed the remark, Eve glanced across at Patty, and said
with a laugh:
"It's like Paris again, isn't it--we three? You ought to come and live
here, Patty. Don't you think you could get a place in Birmingham? Mr.
Hilliard would get a piano for his room, and you could let him have
some music. I'm too old to learn."
"I'm sure he wouldn't want _me_ jingling there."
"Wouldn't he? He's very fond of music indeed."
Hilliard stopped.
"Well, I don't think I'll go any further," he said mechanically.
"You're quite well again, Eve, and that's all I wanted to know."
"What about to-morrow?" Eve asked.
The sun had set, and in the westward sky rose a mountain of menacing
cloud. Hilliard gave a glance in that direction before replying.
"Don't count upon me. Patty and you will enjoy the day together, in any
case. Yes, I had rather have it so. Narramore said just now he might
look in to see me in the after' noon. But come over on Monday. When
does Patty's train go from New Street?"
Eve was mute, gazing at the speaker as if she did not catch what he had
said. Patty answered for herself.
"Then you can either come to my place," he continued, "or I'll meet you
at the station."
Patty's desire was evident in her face; she looked at Eve.
"We'll come to you early in the afternoon," said the latter, speaking
like one aroused from reverie. "Yes, we'll come whatever the weather
is."
The young man shook hands with them, raised his hat, and walked away
without further speech. It occurred to him that he might overtake
Narramore at the station, and in that hope he hastened; but Narramore
must have left by a London and North-Western train which had just
started; he was nowhere discoverable. Hilliard travelled back by the
Great Western, after waiting about an hour; he had for companions
half-a-dozen beer-muddled lads, who roared hymns and costers' catches
impartially.
His mind was haunted with deadly suspicions: he felt sick at heart.
Eve's headache, undoubtedly, was a mere pretence for not accompanying
Patty to-day. She had desired to be alone, and--this he discovered no
less clearly--she wished the friendship between him and Patty to be
fostered. With what foolish hope? Was she so shallow-natured as to
imagine that he might transfer his affections to Patty Ringrose? it
proved how strong her desire had grown to be free from him.
The innocent Patty (_was_ she so innocent?) seemed not to suspect the
meaning of her friend's talk. Yet Eve must have all but told her in so
many words that she was weary of her lover. That hateful harping on
"gratitude"! Well, one cannot purchase a woman's love. He had missed
the right, the generous, line of conduct. That would have been to
rescue Eve from manifest peril, and then to ask nothing of her. Could
he but have held his passions in leash, something like
friendship--rarest of all relations between man and woman--might have
come about between him and Eve. She, too, certainly had never got
beyond the stage of liking him as a companion; her senses had never
answered to his appeal He looked back upon the evening when they had
dined together at the restaurant in Holborn. Could he but have stopped
at _that_ point! There would have been no harm in such avowals as then
escaped him, for he recognised without bitterness that the warmth of
feeling was all on one side, and Eve, in the manner of her sex, could
like him better for his love without a dream of returning it. His error
was to have taken advantage--perhaps a mean advantage--of the strange
events that followed. If he restrained himself before, how much more he
should have done so when the girl had put herself at his mercy, when to
demand her love was the obvious, commonplace, vulgar outcome of the
situation? Of course she harped on "gratitude." What but a sense of
obligation had constrained her?
Something had taken place to-day; he felt it as a miserable certainty.
The man from London had been with her. She expected him, and had
elaborately planned for a day of freedom. Perhaps her invitation of
Patty had no other motive.
That Patty was a conspirator against him he could not believe. No! She
was merely an instrument of Eve's subtlety. And his suspicion had not
gone beyond the truth. Eve entertained the hope that Patty might take
her place. Perchance the silly, good-natured girl would feel no
objection; though it was not very likely that she foresaw or schemed
for such an issue.
At Snow Hill station it cost him an effort to rise and leave the
carriage. His mood was sluggish; he wished to sit still and think idly
over the course of events.
He went byway of St. Philip's Church, which stands amid a wide
graveyard, enclosed with iron railings, and crossed by paved walks. The
locality was all but forsaken; the church rose black against the grey
sky, and the lofty places of business round about were darkly silent. A
man's footstep sounded in front of him, and a figure approached along
the narrow path between the high bars. Hilliard would have passed
without attention, but the man stopped his way.
"Hollo! Here we are again!"
He stared at the speaker, and recognised Mr. Dengate.
"So you've come back?"
"Where from?" said Hilliard. "What do you know of me?"
"As much as I care to," replied the other with a laugh. "So you haven't
quite gone to the devil yet? I gave you six months. I've been watching
the police news in the London papers."
In a maddening access of rage, Hilliard clenched his fist and struck
fiercely at the man. But he did no harm, for his aim was wild, and
Dengate easily warded off the blows.
"Hold on! You're drunk, of course. Stop it, my lad, or I'll have you
locked up till Monday morning. Very obliging of you to offer me the
pleasure I was expecting, but you _will_ have it, eh?"
A second blow was repaid in kind, and Hilliard staggered back against
the railings. Before he could recover himself, Dengate, whose high hat
rolled between their feet, pinned his arms.
"There's someone coming along. It's a pity. I should enjoy thrashing
you and then running you in. But a man of my position doesn't care to
get mixed up in a street row. It wouldn't sound well at Liverpool.
Stand quiet, will you!"
A man and a woman drew near, and lingered for a moment in curiosity.
Hilliard already amazed at what he had done, became passive, and stood
with bent head.
"I must have a word or two With you," said Dengate, when he had picked
up his hat. "Can you walk straight? I didn't notice you were drunk
before I spoke to you. Come along this way."
To escape the lookers-on, Hilliard moved forward.
"I've always regretted," resumed his companion, "that I didn't give you
a sound thrashing that night in the train. It would have done you good.
It might have been the making of you. I didn't hurt you, eh?"
"You've bruised my lips--that's all. And I deserved it for being such a
damned fool as to lose my temper."
"You look rather more decent than I should have expected. What have you
been doing in London?"
"How do you know I have been in London?"
"I took that for granted when I knew you'd left your work at Dudley."
"Who told you I had left it?"
"What does it matter?"
"I should like to know," said Hilliard, whose excitement had passed and
left him cold. "And I should like to know who told you before that I
was in the habit of getting drunk?"
"Are you drunk now, or not?"
"Not in the way you mean. Do you happen to know a man called Narramore?"
"Never heard the name."
Hilliard felt ashamed of his ignoble suspicion. He became silent.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't be told," added Dengate; "it was a
friend of yours at Dudley that I came across when I was making
inquiries about you: Mullen his name was."
A clerk at the ironworks, with whom Hilliard had been on terms of
slight intimacy.
"Oh, that fellow," he uttered carelessly. "I'm glad to know it was no
one else. Why did you go inquiring about me?"
"I told you. If I'd heard a better account I should have done a good
deal more for you than pay that money. I gave you a chance, too. If
you'd shown any kind of decent behaviour when I spoke to you in the
train--but it's no good talking about that now. This is the second time
you've let me see what a natural blackguard you are. It's queer, too,
you didn't get that from your father. I could have put you in the way
of something good at Liverpool. Now, I'd see you damned first, Well,
have you run through the money?"
"Every penny of it gone in drink."
"And what are you doing?"
"Walking with a man I should be glad to be rid of."
"All right. Here's my card. When you get into the gutter, and nobody'll
give you a hand out, let me know."
With a nod, Dengate walked off. Hilliard saw him smooth his silk hat as
he went; then, without glancing at the card, he threw it away.
The next morning was cold and wet. He lay in bed till eleven o'clock,
when the charwoman came to put his rooms in order. At mid-day he left
home, had dinner at the nearest place he knew where a meal could be
obtained on Sunday, and afterwards walked the streets for an hour under
his umbrella. The exercise did him good; on returning he felt able to
sit down by the fire, and turn over the plates of his great book on
French Cathedrals. This, at all events, remained to him out of the
wreck, and was a joy that could be counted upon in days to come.
He hoped Narramore would keep his promise, and was not disappointed. On
the verge of dusk his friend knocked and entered.
"The blind woman was at the door below," he explained, "looking for
somebody."
"It isn't as absurd as it sounds. She does look for people--with her
ears. She knows a footstep that no one else can hear. What were _you_
doing at Dudley yesterday?"
Narramore took his pipe out of its case and smiled over it.
"Colours well, doesn't it?" he remarked. "You don't care about the
colouring of a pipe? I get a lot of satisfaction out of such little
things! Lazy fellows always do; and they have the best of life in the
end. By-the-bye, what were _you_ doing at Dudley?"
"Had to go over with a girl."
"Rather a pretty girl, too. Old acquaintance?"
"Someone I got to know in London. No, no, not at all what you suppose."
"Well, I know you wouldn't talk about it. It isn't my way, either, to
say much about such things. But I half-promised, not long ago, to let
you know of something that was going on--if it came to anything. And it
rather looks as if it might. What do you think! Birching has been at
me, wanting to know why I don't call. I wonder whether the girl put him
up to it?"
"You went rather far, didn't you?"
"Oh, I drew back in time. Besides, those ideas are old-fashioned. It'll
have to be understood that marriageable girls have nothing specially
sacred about them. They must associate with men on equal terms. The day
has gone by for a hulking brother to come asking a man about his
'intentions.' As a rule, it's the girl that has intentions. The man is
just looking round, anxious to be amiable without making a fool of
himself. We're at a great disadvantage. A girl who isn't an idiot can
very soon know all about the men who interest her; but it's devilish
difficult to get much insight into _them_--until you've hopelessly
committed yourself--won't you smoke? I've something to tell you, and I
can't talk to a man who isn't smoking, when my own pipe's lit."
Hilliard obeyed, and for a few moments they puffed in silence, twilight
thickening about them.
"Three or four months ago," resumed Narramore, "I was told one day--at
business--that a lady wished to see me. I happened to have the room to
myself, and told them to show the lady in. I didn't in the least know
who it could be, and I was surprised to see rather a good-looking
girl--not exactly a lady--tallish, and with fine dark eyes--what did
you say?"
"Nothing."
"A twinge of gout?"
"Go on."
Narramore scrutinised his friend, who spoke in an unusual tone.
"She sat down, and began to tell me that she was out of work--wanted a
place as a bookkeeper, or something of the kind. Could I help her? I
asked her why she came to _me_. She said she had heard of me from
someone who used to be employed at our place. That was flattering. I
showed my sense of it. Then I asked her name, and she said it was Miss
Madeley."
A gust threw rain against the windows. Narramore paused, looking into
the fire, and smiling thoughtfully.