‘Have what you like,’ said Ben, with a little indignation; ‘if that’s all; give me a note exactly of what’s owing to you, and you can take yourself off as soon as you like.’
‘Yes, sir; but it looks pecooliar being sent away so sudden,’ said the fellow standing his ground. ‘Perhaps you would not mind just giving a bit of an explanation to any gentleman as may come about my character. I hope you consider I deserve a good character, sir. Gentlemen, and ‘specially ladies, is very apt to ask, “How was it as you was turned away?”’
‘You may go now,’ said Ben, coldly. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. I’ll give you your money as soon as you’re ready to go.’
‘But my character, sir?’ insisted the man. Ben, in his wrath, seized his hat and went off, leaving Morris holding the door open with these words on his lips. He was unreasonably angry in spite of his better judgment. The very first man he had spoken to after his downfall was so entirely indifferent to his concerns, so wrapped up in his own! What were Morris’s board-wages or miserable character in comparison to Ben’s overthrow and changed existence? He went out angry—in a passion, as Morris said not without reason. Naturally the man had his own theory of the whole matter, and held it for certain that his master had been going to the bad, or why should his father disinherit him?—to which question, indeed, it was difficult to make any answer. Ben’s next errand was to a fashionable auctioneer and house-agent, who was very civil, and yet very different from what he had been when the young man of fashion took his rooms. ‘Going abroad, sir?’ Mr. Robins said, with a certain scrutiny which made the young fellow, for the first time in his life, feel himself a doubtful character, required to give an account of himself.
‘Perhaps. I can’t say,’ he answered; ‘but these rooms have become too expensive for me, anyhow, and I want to sell my things.’
‘The worst possible time to do it,’ said the auctioneer, shaking his head. ‘There is not a soul in town, sir, as you know as well as I do. Even in our humble way, we are going to the country ourselves. They would not fetch a third of their proper price now.’
‘But I want the money,’ said Ben; ‘and I can’t keep up the place. I must get rid of them now.’
‘I can take your orders, of course, sir,’ said Mr. Robins, deprecatingly; ‘but it will be at a frightful sacrifice. Nobody but dealers will look at them now,—and we all know what dealers are. Buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest,—a fine maxim, sir, for trade; but ruinous for fancy articles, when you have to push them to a sale, and there’s nobody to buy.’
‘I can’t help myself,’ said Ben, abruptly. He had almost said, ‘What would you advise me to do?’ But his mind was in such a restless state, that the pendulum had veered back again to its first throb of obstinacy ere he could say the other words. And the orders were taken accordingly. Then he went to his club with the listlessness of a man who does not know what to do. What was he to do? Supposing he could make his club his home, with a bedroom somewhere to sleep in, and the Manor and his friends to fall back upon—would that do? Probably he could manage it, even on his small income, by dint of economy,—that unknown quality to which ignorance gave a certain appearance of facility. With no servant, no expensive habits, no entertainment of friends, he might be able to manage. This was what some one of his spiritual enemies whispered in Ben’s ear. The next moment he jumped up and began to walk about the long vacant room,—of which at the moment he was the sole occupant,—with sudden agitation. His idle, pleasant life had come natural to him in the past; but already, though so little time had elapsed, it was no longer natural. To spend seven years of his existence planning how to save shillings and keep up appearances,—to live, he a young man at the height of his strength and powers, the life of a genteel old maid! That was impossible. A day-labourer would be better, he said to himself. But it is so easy to say that. He knew well enough that he could not be a day-labourer; and what could he be?
He had come thus far in his uncomfortable thoughts when somebody struck him familiarly on the shoulder, with an exclamation of surprise. ‘You here!’ said the new-comer. ‘You in London when there is nobody in it, Ben Renton! You are the last fellow I expected to see.’