The next day increased the sense of his newfound importance; his mother had died rich, as he and she understood riches. She had trusted her son in nothing, not even with the knowledge of her income, and after the stinting and scraping to which she had accustomed him he was amazed to find himself master of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, the interest on capital gradually and carefully invested. In his amazement—at first incredulous—he trod on air, while his mind wandered hazily over the glorious possibilities of opulent years to come; the only alloy in his otherwise supreme content being the necessity for preserving (at least until the funeral was over) a decent appearance of dejection. He felt, too, the need of a friend in whom to confide, someone of his own age and standing before whom it would not be needful to keep up the appearance of dejection and who would not be shocked at the babblings of his stirred and exultant soul; and it was this natural longing for a confidant which, on the day following his mother’s funeral, led to the beginning of his friendship with his fellow-clerk, Faraday.
The head of his department, meeting him in the passage, had said a few perfunctory and conventional words of condolence—whereto William had muttered a sheepish “Thank you, sir,” and escaped as soon as might be. The familiar office after his four days’ estrangement from it affected him curiously and unpleasantly; he felt his newly-acquired sense of importance slipping gradually away from him, felt himself becoming once again the underling and creature of routine—the William Tully, obedient and painstaking, who had earned from his childhood the favourable contempt of his superiors. It was borne in on him as the hours went by that it was not enough to accept good fortune—good fortune had to be made use of; and he began to make plans in an irregular, tentative fashion, biting the end of his pen and neglecting his work. Should he chuck the office? and if he chucked it, what then? … Here imagination failed him; his life had been so ordered, so bound down and directed by others, that even his desires were tamed to the wishes of others and left to himself he could not tell what he desired. The need for sympathy and guidance became imperative; driving him, when the other occupants of the room had departed for lunch, to unbosom himself to Faraday.
In his longing to talk he would have addressed himself almost to anyone; but on the whole, and in spite of an entire ignorance of his habits and character, he was glad it was Faraday who was left behind to hear him—a newcomer, recently transferred from another branch and, as William realized (if only half-consciously) like himself regarded by their fellow-clerks as a bit of an outsider. A sallow-faced young man, dark-haired and with large hazel eyes, he was neatly garbed as became an insurance clerk; but there was a suggestion of discomfort about his conventional neatness, just as there was a suggestion of effort about his personal cleanliness. He worked hard and steadily; taking no part in the interludes of blithesome chat wherewith his companions enlivened their hours of toil and appearing to be satisfied rather than annoyed by the knowledge of his own isolation. He had spoken to William but two or three times and always in the way of business—nor was his profile bent over a ledger particularly suggestive of sympathy; William’s emotions, however, had reached exploding-point, and the door had hardly closed behind the last of their fellows when he blurted out, “I say,” and Faraday raised his head.
“I say,” William blurted again, “did you know—my mother’s dead?”
“Ah—yes,” said Faraday uncomfortably; he believed he was being appealed to for sympathy, and fidgeted, clearing his throat; “I—I had heard it mentioned. I needn’t say I’m very sorry—extremely. … I suppose you were very much attached to her?”
William reflected for a moment and then answered honestly, “No.”
“Indeed!” Faraday returned, surprised as well as uncomfortable. Not knowing what further to say, his eyes went back to the ledger and the conversation languished. It was William who resumed it—wondering at the difficulty of expressing his bubbling emotions.
“I don’t mean to say,” he explained with a twinge of remorse, “that I had anything to complain of. My mother always did her duty by me. But we weren’t what you might call sympathetic.”
“Indeed!” Faraday repeated—still at sea as to the motive of the conversation.
“It was unfortunate,” William went on, “but it couldn’t be helped. I am sure she was a very good woman.” (He said this with the more confidence because, from his childhood up, he had always associated goodness with lack of amiability.) “But that wasn’t what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was, she has left me a good deal of money.”
“Indeed?” said Faraday for the third time; adding something about “congratulation.” He hoped the episode was over—but William was only beginning.
“I’ve been wondering,” he said, “what I should do—now that I’m independent. I don’t want to go on like this. It’s a waste—when you’ve got money. But I don’t know how to set about things. … If someone would put me in the way!”
Faraday, raising his eyes from the ledger, met the wistful appeal in William’s and imagined himself enlightened.
“I see,” he said interrogatively; “then you haven’t got your living to earn—you are not tied here any longer? You can direct your own life and take up any line you choose?”
“Yes,” William assented, pleased with the phrase; “I can direct my own life—certainly.”
“Which,” Faraday suggested, “was difficult for you before?”
“Very,” said William emphatically.
“And,” the other went on, “now that you are your own man you wish to take the line that attracts you and be of some use?”
“Oh,
