The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions

by William Hope Hodgson; Douglas A. Anderson

  “Mary,” said the Honourable Billy, some minutes later, looking up from his bank-book, “we’ve just exactly five pounds and six shillings left in the bank. My Uncle John promised me a thousand pounds the day I married you, or else I’d never have had the cheek to ask you—”

  “Husht! Dear, do husht talking like that!” interrupted Mary. “As if I wouldn’t be proud to be your wife, so how poor you was.”

  “ ‘Were,’ bless you,” said the Honourable Billy, drawing her gently to him.

  His wife nodded, and continued.

  “You must be a sensible boy, and let me go back to the mill until your stories are selling better, dear,” she said coaxingly. “I should feel such a proud girl.”

  “Never!” remarked the Honourable Billy, very quietly, but in a tone that told her it was hopeless to press the point; though, in her heart, she believed that necessity would presently compel him to let her go back to her mill-work, where she could earn from twenty-five to twenty-eight shillings per week—sufficient to keep the two of them comfortably.

  The Honourable Billy went to the corner cupboard, and reached down a bill-file, which he brought to the table, and began to examine.

  “Two pounds three and sixpence to Tauton,” he muttered, jotting down the amount on an envelope.

  “I could do without butcher’s meat,” said Mary. “I love potatoes, and we could save a bit that way, dear.”

  “Yes,” said the Honourable Billy grimly. “We might feed you on good plain water, whilst I have a good steak to my dinner! Mary, if I catch you doing that sort of thing, there’ll be trouble!”

  He lifted several more bills off the file.

  “Seventeen and six to Motts for redecoratin’,” he read out. “One pound fifteen to Jenkins for groceries. Fourteen pounds to Tuttles for new furniture. Tailor—poor devil!—wants something on account. I owe him ten pounds. Thank God, anyway, you made me pay the rent out of that last cheque. There’s half a dozen old accounts here, and the big bill of Williams’s for the pictures I bought, depending on that thousand of my uncle’s that he forgot about, and then went and bust, poor old chap!”

  He stopped speaking, and totted up the whole of their debts.

  “Sixty-three pounds sixteen and nine-pence!” he declared at last. “And we’ve five pun sax in the bank; no stories sold, and meanwhile we’ve got to live. Tell you what, lassie—I’ve just got to rustle, and let you see I’m not just such a piece of show-goods as I know you imagine in that quaint little heart o’ thine. I guess I’ve got to raise the wind pretty sudden, an’ I’m going to do it, too, even if I indulge in burglary!”

  “Why not let me go back to the mill, dear, really?” ventured his wife once more.

  “Mary,” said the Honourable Billy, taking her on to his knee, “ hold your tongue!”

  Which Mary did, literally, until her laughter forced her to let go.

  “It’s so slippy,” she explained, with sublime impertinence. “And, anyway, I know you’ll have to let me have my own way in the end.”

  And in the same moment in which she concluded this prophecy, there was a knock at the front door. She returned, carrying an opened letter, set out in varying sized print, and the blanks filled in with spidery writing.

  “It’s from some people called Stubbs,” she said, looking very white and frightened. “They say as we’ve to pay Williams’s bill by next Wednesday, or they’ll summons us. And it was give to old George Cardman”—referring to the old weaver next door, who strongly disapproved of the Honourable Billy—“and now the whole Court will know”—meaning the Farm Court, in which their little cottage stood. “The postman ought to be more careful.” And she fought to keep from crying.

  “Cheer up, little woman!” said the Honourable Billy, taking the letter from her. “I’m going to raise some money jolly soon now. You’ll see.” Yet how this was to be achieved he had no distinct notion, and Pollie felt that this was so.

  “Oh, let me go back to the mill, dear, until we’re clear!” she begged him once more. “Do—do let me, dear! I should be so much happier, you don’t know. I’ve always had such a horror of debt!”

  “No!” said the Honourable Billy, almost fiercely. “You’re never going back there again!”

  And with that from her young lord and master she became silent, yet loving him queerly the more, even whilst her judgment made her feel impatient with him.

  An hour later big Tom Holden called. He was the steam-lurry man at Grafter’s mill, where Pollie had worked before she married the lovable but absurdly poor Honourable Billy. Tom, as it chanced, had been the Honourable Billy’s rival, and had eventually fought with him concerning Pollie, with the result that he had found himself knocked out in something under a minute, much to his astonishment. He had eventually become the Honourable Billy’s staunchest friend and admirer.

  For a time Tom sat chatting quietly, but in a half-hearted fashion as if his thoughts were on the wander and his interest not truly in the topics raised. Eventually he caught the Honourable Billy’s attention with a quick glance, and nodded meaningly towards the door, having first made sure that Mary was not looking at him.

  From this manoeuvre the Honourable Billy gathered that Tom wished to speak to him privately outside; so that when, a few minutes later, the big driver rose to go, he reached for his cap.

  “I’ll come a few steps with you, Tom,” he said. “I feel I want to stretch my legs.” He turned to his wife. “Sha’n’t be five minutes, dear,” he explained, and followed Tom.

  For perhaps a minute big Tom Holden walked at a rapid rate, wordless. Eventually he jerked out, apparently apropos of nothing:

  “T’ match at Jackson’s Green is off.”

  “Oh!” said the Honourable Billy, immediately interested, for he knew that Holden referred to a boxing match that had been arranged between a local champion called Dan Natter, and Blacksmith Dankley, who worked a shoeing forge on the Longsite Road, and was reckoned the best man with his hands for many miles. “That’s a beastly pity, Tom!” he added. “Why’s it off?”

  “Dan’s sprained hisself—’s ankle or summat,” replied Holden. “Doctor’s sure’s he con’t fight, not for a three-month. I wor in Jackson’s place t’-neet, an’ he wor tur’ble cut up. He’s like ta be, for he’s bet big money ’s he’ll find a mon to lick t’ feightin’ blacksmith i’ twenty roonds.”

  “Well,” said the Honourable Billy, “why doesn’t he get another man ? There’s three weeks yet to the fight.”

  “He con’t,” replied Holden. “Dan’s t’ best mon i’ these parts, an’ a likely lad. Not but Dankley’s the best mon to my thinkin’.”

  He relapsed into silence, and for some moments increased the speed of his steps, his actions suggesting suddenly to the Honourable Billy that he wrestled with some mental problem, or with a natural diffidence to say something that was in his mind. Abruptly he said:

  “T’ purse wor a hundred pounds, an’ t’ winner to share t’ gate-money.”

  And again he fell to wordlessness and quick walking. Suddenly he brought out the thing that was in his mind.

  “Happen tha’d be too proud to try for ’t?” he said, with a queer little note of awkwardness in his voice.

  “Me?” demanded the Honourable Billy, lost to all, save astonishment. “Good Lord!” Then, after an instant’s pause: “I’m not half good enough. They’d never let me try.”

  “Tha’ con ax ’em!” said Tom Holden briefly, and still walking.

  “It’d be a godsend,” remarked the Honourable Billy, after a further little space of thinking. “The way things are now I’d jump at it. Only, I tell you I’m not half good enough. Dankley’s a thundering good man. He’s an awful slogger, I’ve always heard; but he’s got the science to back it. He’d be a first-rater if he’d only follow it up. I tell you, Tom, the Jackson crowd would just laugh at me if I put myself on offer.”

  “Happen tha c’ud try,” said Holden, stopping and facing him. “Happen some o’
them ’d laff t’other side the face ’fore tha was done. Tha’s best man wi’ tha hands ’s a’ve seen; an’ I knows wod I’m sayin’, tho’ I bean’t no use to box mysen. Coom down wi’ me t’-morrow neet, an’ see Mister Jackson. He’s fair mad to find a good mon to taake place o’ Dan. Wilta?”

  “Tom,” said the Honourable Billy grimly, “if Jackson’s fool enough to try me and risk his money on me, I’m game, you bet. And I’ll, do my best for him, and that’ll be for myself, too. I want the cash thunderin’ bad.”

  “ ’I,” said Tom; “owd George Cardman wor sayin’ summat ’s made me think tha’ wor short. Well, Aw’ll call for thee t’-morrow neet at ha’-past seven. Tha’ll do a-reet; tha’lt see. Good-neet. Don’t say aught to Pollie.” And with that he turned, and made off in the direction of his home without another word.

  Said Pollie, when the Honourable Billy returned:

  “What did Tom Holden want to say, dear? Was it anything important?”

  “Why,” said the Honourable Billy, “who said that Tom Holden wanted to say anything?”

  Mary Darrell laughed, but asked nothing further; for she could trust her husband, and she would not force him into the position of having to fib, or else having to refuse blankly to tell her. Yet she half meant, in her way, to discover what it might be that Tom had been so palpably secret about.

  The following day the Honourable Billy went off to see Williams, the man to whom he owed the big bill for pictures, and, after some talk, he managed to arrange things.

  Then he went home to tell Mary that he had deferred the threatened fall of the sword for a month. But when he got home he found fresh trouble, for there, with his foot down to prevent the door from being closed, was a big, coarse-looking man, whose voice seemed to fill the Court.

  “I’ll ha’ my money!” he was shouting to someone within the nearly closed door. “I’ll ha’ my money!” And he gave the door a shove with his great hand that forced it half open.

  But it was immediately pushed to again, and a little, frightened voice from behind it was heard saying: “Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away! Oh, go away!” And then the sound of sobs.

  “No; I’ll not go away wi’out my money!” roared the man, thumping the door vigorously with each word to emphasise himself. “Tell that skulkin’ toff that married thee to coom out an’ pay his debts, ’stead o’ loafin’ ahind thy skirts like a great babby!”

  “Go away! Oh, do go away, Mr. Jenkins!” said Mary’s voice from behind the door, sobbing bitterly. “Oh, go away! Oh, go away!”

  “Not I!” shouted the man. “I’ll ha’ my money! Send un out! I’ll teach un! Send tha loafin’ toff out!” And he thumped at the door till it quivered again; and poor little Mary Darrell, pushing desperately against it from behind, screamed piteously. “I’ll teach un!” roared the big grocer. “I’ll teach un!”

  “Certainly!” said the Honourable Billy, at his elbow, in the quietest voice in the world. “Will you give the lesson here, Mr. Jenkins, or in the little field at the back? In any case, perhaps you will be good enough to stop bullying my wife.” Then, as the man turned, half ashamed and blustering, upon him, “Oh, you hideous lout!” he said, with a flash of white-hot rage. And therewith he struck the big grocer with his open hand on the side of the face so hard that he knocked him down.

  The burly grocer was doubtless a bully; though, possibly, he had not considered himself bullying in an unrighteous cause; but he had plenty of animal courage, and, moreover, he fancied himself somewhat with his fists. He got up, with an inarticulate roar, and hurled himself at the “toff.”

  “Urr! urr! urr!” he grunted, and with each grunt he drove a blow at the Honourable Billy’s head. But the head refused to wait for the big red fists, and slid under them, swiftly and gracefully, or slipped to the side. Then the Honourable Billy shot his left hand in quickly, and broke one of the big grocer’s short ribs; for he was uncommonly angry. And, because he was so uncommonly angry, he followed his left lead with his right fist with all his strength. There was a nasty, snicking, breaking sound, and the big man lay senseless on the floor of the Court with a broken jaw.

  “My word! My word, sir!” said a quick voice behind the furious young man. “Knocked big Jenkins into heaven with a left and right, sir! My word, sir; but you’re the man I’m looking for. My name’s Jackson, sir—Jackson of Jackson’s Bowlin’ Green, at the back of the Black Anchor.”

  The Honourable Billy looked round, and found a small, rather dapper-looking man, with a somewhat Jewish kind of face, holding out a much-ringed hand to him.

  “I’m Jackson, sir,” repeated the little man, as if the name explained everything that might need explaining.

  “Ye-es?” said the Honourable Billy, a little dazed still with the anger that had burned in him. He took the extended hand, and gave it a brief, unconscious shake, then dropped it, and turned to the man upon the ground.

  “Allow me,” interposed the little man, and knelt beside the big grocer, making a swift examination. “Broken rib; jaw broken and dislocated,” he commented calmly. “You’ve got a good punch on you, sir—a rare good punch.”

  He put his hand over the man’s heart, and afterwards pulled up one of his eyelids.

  “Needs a doctor pretty bad,” he remarked. “I’ve my light wagonette here; perhaps you’ll give my man a lift, sir?”

  He put his fingers into his mouth and whistled, and there drove in through the entrance of the Court a smart, light, sporty-looking wagonette, driven by a big, stout man in a light-grey top-hat, who chewed a straw and viewed the little group without any undue exhibition of emotion.

  “Come and give us a lift, Marles!” said the little man briefly. “Be smart now!”

  The man climbed down, and came leisurely across.

  “Had his medicine good, Mr. Jackson, by the look of un!” he commented, stooping forward, hands on knees, and inspecting the man upon the ground.

  “Take his shoulders,” was all the reply his master made; and they set-to and got the weighty grocer into the wagonette.

  “No, sir!” said Mr. Jackson, as the Honourable Billy made to follow. “You keep out o’ this. Tom Holden mentioned you to me, and I was coming up to see you. After what I’ve seen I’m not going to have you gaoled, as you may be, for assault. Leave the whole thing in my hands, sir. I’ll fix it up, if anyone can. You go home and stay there quietly until I come up and have a talk with you, sir. You’ll know me—Jackson’s my name, sir. Jackson!”

  And with that he and his man got into the wagonette and drove off.

  “He’s right,” muttered the Honourable Billy. And suddenly he remembered Mary. He rushed to his door, and found it closed. From within there came an indistinct sound of sobbing. He turned the handle and pushed, but was immediately aware that someone was pushing back. There came a little gasp of terror and hopelessness behind the door, and then his diminutive wife’s voice frantically:

  “Go away ! Go away ! Oh, go, go, go, go, go, go, go!”

  And in the middle of this frightened and unstrung reiteration, the Honourable Billy pushed the door open and went in. He found Mary at the back of the door—a small, trembling, dishevelled figure, pushing and pushing, and sobbing desperately as she pushed—a thoroughly unnerved and terrified little woman.

  “Oh,” he said, with infinite tenderness, “my little defender of the castle!” And he caught her into his arms and carried her into the inner room. “Poor kiddy!” he muttered. “The brute has upset you.”

  “There—there—there’s been—been three; one—one—one af-ter another,” said Mary, unable yet to still her sobs. “They—they said such—such h-h-horrible things, and—and —and tried to come in-n-side. But I pushed against them; and—and—and then you—came in.”

  “Poor little woman,” muttered the Honourable Billy. “No more answering the door when I’m out, remember; that is, not until I’ve paid all the brutes up. We’ll never buy another shillingsworth from any of them as long as we live. The
rotten brutes to bully you like that! If I’d caught ’em! If I’d caught ’em!” he added to himself, with a dreadful little note of savagery in his voice. Then, suddenly remembering the condition of Jenkins the grocer, he fell silent, troubled and bothered that he had hit so hard. Yet, in the same moment, fiercely sure that he would do the same thing again in like case.

  Presently he had his wife hushed and assured, telling her that all would be well, and that he had found a method of earning enough money within a few weeks to pay off all their debts, and have something in the bank, if only things went right. But what was to prove this sudden road to wealth he was careful to hide from her.

  Later, when Mr. Jackson returned to pay his promised call, the Honourable Billy ushered him into his little study, explaining to him, as soon as he had closed the door, that his wife must not hear a word of the match with Dankley, or she would be dreadfully upset.

  Then Mr. Jackson got to work and proposed terms; yet, in the end, explained to the Honourable Billy that nothing could be signed until the committee who were running the affair along with him had signified their agreeableness for him to take the place of Dan Natter. Therefore, the Honourable Billy must call at the Black Anchor that night, where the committee were to meet in a private room, and discuss the situation, and choose some boxer to meet Dankley.

  “And pretty glum they are, sir,” said Jackson, gleefully rubbing his hands; “and so was I, for that matter, till I saw you paste big Jenkins. He’s quite a tidy man with his fists, too, and a bit of a rough customer. We’ll keep him quiet, though, till the match is over, even if we have to shanghai him, sir. You bet we will, as sure as my name’s Jackson.”

  He stood up, and shook hands.

  “You’ll be down, then, sir, soon after eight to-night at the Black Anchor,” he concluded. “Ask anyone, sir. Say you want Jackson’s place; they’ll show you. Ask for me. Good-night, sir,”

  And with that he was off.

  At seven-thirty, as arranged, big Tom Holden called for the Honourable Billy, who promptly told him that Jackson had been up himself to see him.