All his possessions, save the articles of clothing which he would carry with him, were packed in a couple of trunks, to be sent on the morrow to Birmingham, where they would lie in the care of his friend Narramore.  Kinsfolk he had none whom he cared to remember, except his sister; she lived at Wolverhampton, a wife and mother, in narrow but not oppressive circumstances, and Hilliard had taken leave of her in a short visit some days ago.  He would not wait for the wedding of his sister-in-law enough that she was provided for, and that his conscience would always be at ease on her account.

For he was troubled with a conscience—­even with one unusually poignant.  An anecdote from his twentieth year depicts this feature of the man.  He and Narramore were walking one night in a very poor part of Birmingham, and for some reason they chanced to pause by a shop-window—­a small window, lighted with one gas-jet, and laid out with a miserable handful of paltry wares; the shop, however, was newly opened, and showed a pathetic attempt at cleanliness and neatness.  The friends asked each other how it could possibly benefit anyone to embark in such a business as that, and laughed over the display.  While he was laughing, Hilliard became aware of a woman in the doorway, evidently the shopkeeper; she had heard their remarks and looked distressed.  Infinitely keener was the pang which Maurice experienced; he could not forgive himself, kept exclaiming how brutally he had behaved, and sank into gloominess.  Not very long after, he took Narramore to walk in the same direction; they came again to the little shop, and Hilliard surprised his companion with a triumphant shout.  The window was now laid out in a much more promising way, with goods of modest value.  “You remember?” said the young man.  “I couldn’t rest till I had sent her something.  She’ll wonder to the end of her life who the money came from.  But she’s made use of it, poor creature, and it’ll bring her luck.”

Only the hopeless suppression of natural desires, the conflict through years of ardent youth with sordid circumstances, could have brought him to the pass he had now reached—­one of desperation centred in self.  Every suggestion of native suavity and prudence was swept away in tumultuous revolt.  Another twelvemonth of his slavery and he would have yielded to brutalising influences which rarely relax their hold upon a man.  To-day he was prompted by the instinct of flight from peril threatening all that was worthy in him.

Just as the last glimmer of daylight vanished from his room there sounded a knock at the door.

“Your tea’s ready, Mr. Hilliard,” called a woman’s voice.

He took his meals downstairs in the landlady’s parlour.  Appetite at present lie had none, but the pretence of eating was a way of passing the time; so he descended and sat down at the prepared table.