diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-27 07:04:46 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-27 07:04:46 -0800 |
| commit | b4abf0d3e3750be6098f4ec62bfb98a557732878 (patch) | |
| tree | c2eacf542d4a5ea4db8b40025e40a46312eed693 | |
| parent | 3da30341925b05f7d097a4e968fb28b72e551597 (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60018-0.txt | 6342 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60018-0.zip | bin | 129645 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60018-h.zip | bin | 173301 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60018-h/60018-h.htm | 6337 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60018-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 35985 -> 0 bytes |
8 files changed, 17 insertions, 12679 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4b92ed --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60018 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60018) diff --git a/old/60018-0.txt b/old/60018-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 488ceee..0000000 --- a/old/60018-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6342 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Son of His Father; vol. 3/3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Son of His Father; vol. 3/3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 30, 2019 [EBook #60018] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SON OF HIS FATHER; VOL. 3/3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - THE SON OF HIS FATHER. - - VOL. III. - - - - - THE SON OF HIS FATHER - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF - “IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS,” “AGNES,” - “THE LAIRD OF NORLAW,” - ETC., ETC. - - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. III. - - - LONDON: - HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, - 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - 1887. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - -CONTENTS - -OF - -THE THIRD VOLUME. - - -CHAPTER PAGE - -I. THE GREAT SCHEME 1 - -II. MR. SANDFORD’S SECRETARY 18 - -III. JOHN ON HIS TRIAL 34 - -IV. DEFEATED AND WRONGED 51 - -V. THE CULPRIT 67 - -VI. A CRISIS 80 - -VII. MRS. SANDFORD’S VIEW 96 - -VIII. THE CONVICT 113 - -IX. THE FIRST SHOCK 129 - -X. MOTHER AND SON 147 - -XI. SUSIE AND HER LOVERS 165 - -XII. JOHN’S LETTER 183 - -XIII. THE DARKNESS THAT COULD BE FELT 203 - -XIV. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION 220 - -XV. THE FATHER AND CHILDREN 242 - -XVI. THE GREAT SCHEME 260 - -XVII. ELLY’S PLEDGE 277 - -XVIII. A SUSPENDED SOLUTION 295 - - - - -THE SON OF HIS FATHER. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE GREAT SCHEME. - - -John’s imagination, though it was so full of other matters, was affected -more than he could understand by his strange visitor. He felt himself -going back a hundred times in the course of the evening to this man, and -those curious sophistries which he produced, always with that half smile -in his eyes, as if he himself saw the absurdity in them, and as if -morals and reason were something outside of himself to be treated with -entire impartiality. - -John wondered how far he believed or disbelieved what he had been -saying, and whether these dispassionate discussions of what was -formally right or wrong took away from a conscience, which could not be -very delicate or sensitive, anything of the burden. They set him -thinking too, following the career of such a being, trying to -understand. Drink--was not in the decalogue, as his visitor had said: -and John had seen enough even in his short life to know with what -facility, with what innocence of evil meaning, the first step may be -taken in that most general, most destructive of all vices--the one which -leads to so many other developments, and which involves, as that -philosopher had allowed, consequences more terrible, and penalties more -prompt and inevitable than any other. John was very strenuous against -it, almost bitter, having seen, as everyone has seen, its disastrous -effects upon both body and soul. And yet, perhaps it was true what the -other had said. Perhaps there were sins which brought no immediate evil -consequences, which yet were blacker in the sight of heaven. - -He felt himself wondering, with an indulgent feeling which was strange -to him, how it was that a man who had nothing in him of the criminal -air, a man full of thoughtfulness and humorous observation, and a -knowledge of the workings of the mind, should have fallen into crime, -and should have sunk into those depths and abysses of misery where he -had no friend but Joe. A man must have reduced all the motives of human -life to their elements, he must have banished all consideration of the -outward and visible, all thoughts of the alleviations, the consolations, -the comforts and stays of existence before he could have sunk -contentedly to the bottom, and cynically, stoically, smilingly, -despairingly, made himself believe that his brutal ‘mate’ was as good as -any other, being all that remained to him. - -And what, John asked himself, could remain for a convict whose world for -so many years had been limited to the interior of a prison, and who in -the course of working out his sentence had lost everything? What -remained? One would suppose the poor wretch’s family, somebody who -belonged to him, some wife or sister, or daughter. And then came his -story: It is Corban--a gift. John felt his own heart bleed at the mere -thought of this hopeless, succourless, yet uncomplaining misery. A man -who could manage still to smile in the face of all that, to maintain -still the attitude of a thinker, of an observer looking on at his own -entire destitution with impartial eyes, with that calm and full -understanding and humorous despair--the young man shuddered in the midst -of his own success and prosperity, and love and hope. Could there be a -more complete and absolute contrast? It was so great that his heart -seemed to stand still as he contemplated it--a distance as of heaven -from hell. - -The evening was spent in very close work; for he found that a great many -details had to be filled in and made clear before the plan, worked out -in his own brain, could be made presentable to the experienced and -critical eyes to which he meant to submit it. And he was at his -writing-table again early in the morning, arranging his papers so as to -make the copying easy, with much question in his own mind whether his -new _protegé_ would really come, whether he would prove capable of such -work. John thought that in all likelihood the man would not come, and -was giving up with a regret which seemed even to himself quite uncalled -for--regret as for a pet project which he gave up most unwillingly--the -plan of active charity which he had so hastily adopted--when his visitor -of the previous day suddenly appeared. He came alone, trim and -well-brushed, but with a shaking hand, and eyes which were red and -muddy, and made his excuses with a deprecating smile. - -‘I’m late,’ he said, ‘you must make allowance for bad habits. And I’ve -had to get up as other people pleased for so long that I can’t help -indulging a little now; but I work quickly and I’ll soon make it up.’ - -‘There is no hurry,’ said John: which was not exactly true, nor what he -would have said to anyone else. And they worked together for the greater -part of the day, not talking much, though John’s secretary now and then -paused, leaned back upon his chair, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and -seemed on the eve of resuming the philosophisings of last night. But -John was too busy to take any notice, and his companion presently would -fall to work again. - -He had no special knowledge of John’s subject, but he had a great deal -of intelligence, and asked reasonable questions and led John into -explanations which were very useful to him, showing him how to recommend -and elucidate his plan. They had their chop together in the middle of -the day, and John found his companion more and more agreeable. There was -something natural, familiar, in the relations into which they fell. John -was a young man not too easy, as his fellow-workers knew, to ‘get on -with.’ He was very exacting in the matter of attention to work. He was -apt to conceive a contempt for the people who did not care for what they -were employed on--and the young men who did just what they were -compelled to do and no more, found no favour in his eyes. But even those -periods of idling which occurred in the work of this grey-haired -secretary did not produce that effect upon his young employer. - -A gentleness of feeling, little habitual to him, stole over John. He did -not feel critical--he felt friendly, oh, so compassionate, afraid even -to think anything that could add a pang to this man, so forlorn and -miserable, denuded of all things. The less he made of his own -wretchedness the more profoundly did John feel it. He kept thinking, as -he gave him his instructions, of all that this clear intelligence must -have suffered shut up in the strait routine of a prison. He could not -copy a page or make a calculation without some little running-over of -remark, something that brought a smile, that betrayed the lively play of -a mind unsubdued by the most tremendous burdens, by all the heavy and -horrible experiences of such a life. How could he have borne that, day -by day and year by year? A sort of awe, and almost reverence of the -tragedy that this humorous, light-hearted being must have lived through, -rose in John’s musing soul. - -It was not until they were finishing their little meal together that the -absence of one very natural and usual explanation between them struck -the young man. - -‘By-the-by,’ John said, suddenly--he was making corrections in one of -the papers and did not raise his head--‘By-the-by, it seems very absurd. -I don’t even know your name.’ - -There was a moment’s silence, and then John looked up. He found his -companion’s eyes fixed upon him with his usual half smile of -observation, and dubious humorous uncertainty. When John met his eye he -changed his position a little with a momentary laugh. - -‘I have been so long out of the habit of thinking a name necessary,’ he -said. ‘My name is----’ He paused again, and once more looked at John, -in whose face there was no suspicious anxiety, but only a friendly -alertness of interest. Something mischievous and mirthful lighted up in -the stranger’s eyes: ‘My name is--March,’ he said. - -‘And mine is Sandford,’ replied John. - -The mischievous light went out of the other’s look. His face grew -serious; he nodded his head two or three times with gravity. - -‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It is a name that I have had a great deal to do -with in my life; but I don’t suppose you ever heard of me.’ - -John shook his head. He cleared away with his own hand the last remnants -of the luncheon, over which enough time had been expended. - -‘Now we’ll get to work again if you are ready,’ he said. - -He knew nothing of any March. He was not aware that he had ever heard -the name. And then they set to work again together pleasantly, -cheerfully; John finding something inspiriting in the companionship for -all the rest of the afternoon. - -Next day the young man presented himself at the office, though his leave -was not yet exhausted. But he did not go naturally to his own desk, to -look if there were letters or special orders for him. He marched -straight to the door within which the younger partner, the son of the -Mr. Barrett who had received him into the office, and whom John had -always found severe, had his throne. The younger Mr. Barrett was far -more favourable to the young man than his father had ever been, and -never spoke to him of the hospital, or the duty which lay upon him to -repay his mother for her kindness, which was what the elder invariably -did. It is not a subject which is agreeable even to the most dutiful of -children. Repay your mother for all that she has done for you! Who could -bear that odious advice? John was not angelic enough to be pleased by -it. And when he had the choice it was to Mr. William Barrett that he -betook himself. He found that personage in a very cheerful condition, -and delighted to see him. - -‘You are the very man I want. You must go off at once to those works at -Hampstead. They’ve got into a mess, and no one can clear it up better -than you. I was just wishing for you. But your leave is not out: how is -it you’ve come back before your time?’ - -Then John explained that he had been privately working for a long time -at a scheme of which his mind was very full. And he gave on the spot an -account of it which made the junior partner open his eyes. - -‘If you’ve done that, my boy, you’ve made your fortune, and ours too,’ -he said, listening with great attention to John’s exposition. - -‘That’s what I hope, sir,’ the young man said, with all the confidence -of youth. - -Mr. William Barrett listened half-bantering, half-believing. To think of -so young a man having hit upon an expedient which had baffled so many -older brains, seemed to him half-incredible, and he laughed and rubbed -his hands even while he seriously inclined to hear all the details of -the scheme. - -‘It all depends upon whether it’s practicable,’ he said. ‘Do you know -the lie of the country? Have you calculated the cost even of what will -be required as a basis of operations?’ - -‘I have calculated everything,’ said John, with that enthusiastic -conviction which is so contagious. Mr. Barrett looked in his face with a -laugh, half-sceptical, half-sympathetic. - -‘I like young men to think well of their own schemes,’ he said; ‘and I -like them to plan big works even if they should never come to anything. -Show me your papers----’ - -‘I am having them copied out. I am making the statement as clear as -possible. I will bring them as soon as they are ready.’ - -‘Oh, they are not ready, then!’ Mr. Barrett cooled perceptibly. ‘You -should not have said anything about it until they were in a state to be -inspected--copying was not necessary--the rough notes are what I should -have liked to see. You had better go off to Hampstead at once, and when -you have finished that job you can bring me your plan, if it is ready -then. There may be something in it--one can never tell.’ - -John felt that this was a very summary dismissal after the gleam of -favour with which he had been regarded. He felt as if the plan which -had been so much in the forefront of his imagination had been cast all -at once into the background, which discouraged him for the moment: all -the more that his own judgment agreed with what his chief said, and he -felt now that it would have been better to place the scribbles of his -rising invention before the experienced eyes which could see at a glance -what was practicable in them, instead of the fair copy written out in a -strange hand, which his impulse in favour of poor March had alone moved -him to make. However, he set out at once for Hampstead, according to his -orders, and there forgot his discouragement, and even, for a time, his -great scheme, in the counter excitement of bringing order out of chaos. -There is a certain satisfaction in finding that a piece of business has -been horribly mismanaged, when one feels that one can put it all right. -For some days John was fully occupied with this work, with scarcely time -even to think of anything else. He got home at night late and very tired -with his day’s work, feeling able for little more than to give a glance -at what March had been doing and to feel the comfort and satisfaction -of having an amanuensis who arranged his papers so carefully and copied -so neatly, in a handwriting, which, John remarked with surprise, was -very like though better than his own. Everything was carefully arranged -in the most orderly manner, the scraps of calculation in their proper -succession, and the work going on, though slowly. It was indeed going on -very slowly, and John never found his secretary at work when he -returned: but he reflected that in all likelihood that philosopher, left -to himself, took things easily; and there was no hurry: and he was too -tired in the evenings when he came back from his work to give his full -attention to anything else. - -The Hampstead work occupied him for about a fortnight. On the morning -after its completion he got up with a new start of energy, and with a -revival of interest and enthusiasm betook himself to his great scheme. -To his surprise, however, he found the little collection of -calculations, sketches, and estimates, in the very same condition in -which he had placed them in March’s hand, all very neatly arranged and -in proper order, but without a trace of the fair copy for which he had -given instructions. John was exceedingly startled, and did not know what -to think. Had it not been done at all? had the patience of the -unfortunate amanuensis or his self-control given way, and the work been -thrown up? But then John had seen a considerable part of it completed. -He had even, as has been said, looked over a portion of it, and remarked -that March’s handwriting was like his own. What could this mean? An -alarm which he felt to be absurd, at least excessive, most likely -altogether uncalled-for, took possession of him. He called his landlady -and asked her if Mr. March had said anything, if he had left any -message, if he had been at work the day before? John’s landlady was the -impersonation of respectability: she did not lose her temper or break -forth into abuse. But her air was that of an offended woman, and she -immediately replied that she had been about to speak to him on the -subject, that she could not have such persons in her house. - -‘Persons?’ John said, with surprise, and then Mrs. Short, keeping her -composure with difficulty, informed him that she had nothing to say -against ‘the old gentleman,’ who she allowed was pleasant-spoken, and -looked respectable, though she much feared he liked a drop: but that the -other was the one as she could not abide. - -John learned with some annoyance that Joe had come daily while he was -absent, and had made his way into the room where March sat at work--but -that for the last two days neither of them had appeared at all. - -‘And very glad I was: for I couldn’t have stood it another day, not -another day, Mr. Sandford, much as I think on you, sir. A fellow like -that slouching in as if the place belonged to him: and who could tell -what he mightn’t bring--disease, or vermin, or dirt: dirt sure enough, -for Jane did nothing but sweep up after him. Glad was I when they both -went away.’ - -‘The day before yesterday?’ said John, ‘and no message, not a word to -explain.’ - -‘The old gentleman came in the morning. He had the papers out as usual, -and was a-going to begin: and then the other one came for him, and they -both went away.’ - -All John’s questions could elicit nothing more than this. He said to -himself that March must have taken something to finish at home; that -perhaps he might have fallen into one of those paroxysms of drinking -with which John was acquainted among his men. He was angry with himself -for the apprehensions that stole into his mind. If this man had not been -what he was--a convict, a man without a character, John said to himself, -it never would have occurred to him to fear. Joe, indeed, was not to be -trusted with spoons or even great-coats or anything portable; but what -could Joe know about the value of his papers? It was ridiculous to think -of any theft. No doubt the easiest explanation was the true one--that -March had taken the papers to complete at home. With this he tried to -content himself, and, with the idea that after all he was but doing what -he ought to have done at once, gathered up his own rough notes and -calculations, and set out for the office. There seemed a slight -excitement there at his appearance, or so he thought. The vague -uneasiness in his own mind no doubt gave a certain aspect of curiosity -and commotion to the clerks in the outer office, who looked up at him -as he came in. - -‘Mr. Barrett, I think, was looking for you, Sandford. You will find them -both in Mr. William’s room,’ said the principal of the outer office. - -John walked in, not without a growing sense of trouble to come; he did -not know what it might be, but he felt it in the air. Some thunder-bolt -or other was about to fall upon his unaccustomed head. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -MR. SANDFORD’S SECRETARY. - - -This was what had happened in the meantime, while John had been about -his other work. The man whom he had so readily taken up, knowing nothing -of him except harm, had begun with quite an _élan_ of sympathetic -industry while the young man was with him. It was his nature so to do; -had John remained with him all the time he would have continued so, with -a generous desire to second and carry out all his wishes. But, when left -alone to his work, his interest flagged. He settled everything in the -most neat and orderly way, for he was always orderly, always ready to -arrange and keep a certain symmetry in his surroundings, a kind of -gratifying occupation which was not work. - -When he had spread out his ink, his pens, his pencil, and ruler, his -blotting-paper, and all the scraps he had to copy on the table before -him, he began his work, and wrote on for half-an-hour at least with the -air of a man who knew no better pleasure. But when he got to the -conclusion of the page he laid down his pen and began to think. He had a -quickly working mind, readily moved by any suggestion, taking up a cue -and running on from it in lines of thought which amused him sometimes -with a certain appearance of originality, enough to impose upon any -chance listener, and always upon himself. This led him into mental -amplifications of the text that was before him, and gave him a certain -pleasure at first even in his work of copying. He thought of two or -three things which he felt would be great improvements upon John’s plan -as he went on, and at the end of each page he mused for an hour or so -upon that and a hundred other subjects into which it ran. And then he -roused up suddenly and turned the leaf and wrote a few sentences more; -and then it occurred to him that it was time to eat something, as his -breakfast had been a very light one. - -He went out accordingly, having still money in his pocket, to get his -luncheon, and lingered a little to wash down the hot and savoury sausage -which was agreeable to a stomach not in very good order, and met Joe, -who was hanging about on the outlook for his mate. Joe returned with him -to pilot his friend safely through the little-known streets to the room -in which John, in his simplicity, had believed his protégé would be safe -from all such influences, and went in with him to bear him company. -Then, after March had rested from these fatigues, his comrade aroused -his interest not unskilfully. - -‘I ’eard him say,’ remarked Joe, ‘as them papers would make ‘is fortin.’ - -‘So he thinks, poor lad; and I hope they may, for he’s a good lad and -has been very kind to me.’ - -‘Droll to think you can make a fortin’ by writin’ on bits of paper,’ -said Joe, touching John’s notes with his grimy hand (and indeed that -opinion is shared by many people), ‘is it story-books, or wot is it!’ - -Mr. March laughed with genuine enjoyment, leaning back in his chair. - -‘No, you ignoramus,’ he said; ‘don’t you see its figures, calculations, -things you can understand still less than story-books? It’s a great -scheme, Joe, my fine fellow, for turning the water out of the river and -making the floods into dry land.’ - -‘You’re laughing at a poor fellow, guv’nor. I aint no scholard. And -what’ll be done with the land? Will he farm it, or build on’t, or -what’ll he do with it, when he’s got it? Doin’ away with the river would -be little good, as I can see.’ - -‘Joe, you are a donkey,’ said his mate; ‘don’t you know there’s floods -every year, and water in the houses, and water on the fields, and -destruction everywhere. And this young fellow is an engineer, and means -to put a stop to that.’ - -‘Oh!’ said Joe. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘It ’ud be the landlords -o’ them places that would get the profit o’ that.’ - -‘Landlords and everybody; it would be a great advantage to the country, -and would make our young man’s fortune, as he says.’ - -‘If I was you,’ said Joe, ‘I’d go on ahead with that. If it’s you -that’s writing it out, you’ll go shares in the profits, I reckon.’ - -March resumed his pen at this incentive and began once more to write. - -‘No,’ he said, shaking his hand, ‘not shares; for I have really nothing -to do with it except to copy it; but I’ve no doubt he will pay me, and -pretty well too----’ - -‘I daresay,’ said Joe, ‘if he’s that sort of a cove for finding out -things, as he has a many more in his head as well as this.’ - -‘I should think most likely,’ said the elder man. ‘He’s got a good -brain--and plenty of energy, and fond of his profession--which is a good -thing, Joe. Neither you nor I have been fond of our professions, -unfortunately for us.’ - -‘I ain’t got one--not even a trade. I was brought up to hang about, and -do odd jobs. I never had no justice in my bringing-up.’ - -‘Ah, that was a pity,’ said his companion; ‘perhaps, however, it -wouldn’t have mattered much. Hanging about is the trade of a great many -men, Joe, more successful men than you and me.’ - -‘It depends on the nature o’ the jobs you gets,’ Joe remarked. He drew -his chair a little nearer to the writing-table. ‘I’d get on with that -there work, guv’nor, if I was you,’ he said, with a nudge; ‘if there’s a -fortune in it for one, there might be a fortune in it for two.’ - -March looked at him hazily with an afternoon look of drowsiness and -languor; but he was tickled by the advice thus given, and resumed the -so-easily-relinquished work. Joe, so to speak, sat or stood over him all -day, encouraging and stimulating. The work went on slowly, as John -remarked in the evening, but still it went on. The next day and the next -passed in much the same way, except that Joe, ‘hanging about’ as usual, -managed to meet his comrade on his way to instead of after luncheon, and -so secured a clear head and less drowsy condition for the afternoon. At -last, chiefly by the exertions of this very unusual overseer, the work -was concluded, and then Joe spoke his mind more clearly. - -‘It’s you as has had most part of this work, guv’nor, but it’s he as’ll -get the pay.’ - -‘That’s the way of this world, Joe,’ said his comrade. But he added -after a moment, with a magnanimous air, ‘Not in this case, however--for -I have only copied, I have not invented--though I may have given a few -hints.’ - -He had given these hints only to himself, various suggestions having -occurred to him in the course of his copying, which in some instances he -had inserted with the wildest ignorance of practicability in his text. - -‘I make no doubt,’ said Joe, ‘as the best of it come out o’ your head, -guv’nor. You was always the one as had the brains; and it’s you as -should profit by it. A young fellow like that’s got no occasion to make -his fortune at his age. It ain’t good for him. When you make your -fortune like that right off, it puffs you up with pride, and it stops -you doing more. Ain’t that true? Why, you knows it is;--chaplains and -parsons and all that sort say so. It’s good for you to be kep’ down when -you’re young. It would be a thousand pities to spoil a young fellow’s -life like, with getting everything that he wants first thing afore he’s -had any experience. That’s what has always been said to me.’ - -‘There is some truth in it, no doubt,’ said March. - -‘A deal of truth, guv’nor. I suppose, now, you’ve just got to take them -papers to somebody as deals in things like that, and get money for ’em -down on the nail?’ - -‘He will take them to some great engineering firm,’ said the other. ‘And -probably he would not part with them for a sum “down on the nail,” as -you say. Such a scheme as this he’d be sure to have some share in it. He -would superintend the carrying out of his plans, if you understand that. -It might be years of work for him, and the most excellent beginning. I -should think he deserved it, too,’ said John’s amanuensis, looking round -approvingly, ‘for there is every evidence that he’s a fine fellow, and I -know he has been very kind to me.’ - -‘And you might be very kind to ’im, in that way,’ said Joe. - -‘I could be--kind to _him_? I don’t think I’ve very much in my power one -way or other,’ said March, with a smile and a sigh. - -‘Guv’nor,’ said Joe, ‘you never was one as took things upon you. Give up -to other folks, that was allays what you would do. But what’s the good? -You don’t get no thanks for it. If I was in your place--as I’m a -donkey, and good for nothing, but you ain’t, and could do a lot if you -liked--I know what I’d do.’ - -March smiled benignantly enough upon the poor dependent, whose -flatteries were not unpleasant to him. - -‘And what would you do, if you were me, which is not a very likely -change?’ he said. - -‘No, it ain’t likely. Them as is born asses, dies asses--and t’other way -too. It ain’t for me to tell a clever man like you, and that has got a -fine education, and born a gentleman.’ - -‘Alas!’ said March, shaking his head; ‘alas! it hasn’t come to much, has -it? Your mate, my poor fellow, and one without a friend but you, or a -chance in the wide world----’ - -‘Don’t say that, guv’nor. Here’s a chance, if I ain’t more of a born ass -than ever I thought--a chance for a fortune, and for doing the young -fellow a good turn. How’s he, at his age, to show up a big thing like -this? There’s nobody as would believe it of him. They’d say, “Oh, get -along, you boy.” They’d never take him in earnest at all.’ - -‘I do him a good turn! I, a broken man, without character or anything; -without a friend! and he a fine, respectable young fellow, well thought -of, and clever, and knowing more than I ever knew at my best. That’s -nonsense, Joe.’ - -‘Not if you’ll think a bit, guv’nor; I hear him say them papers is my -fortune--and then I hears him ’eave a sigh. He’s not one of the pushing -ones, he isn’t. He knows as they’re worth a deal, but he hasn’t the face -to say “Look here, you give me so much for this.” Guv’nor, I know you’re -a man as will do a deal for a friend. Why don’t you take ’em just as -they lies there, and take ’em to some person as deals in that sort of -thing, and just up and ask ’em what’ll they give for this? “There’s a -young un,” says you, “as understands everything about it and is just the -man to work ’em out.” If I were in your place, guv’nor, that’s what I -would do.’ - -‘But, my good fellow,’ said March, ‘those papers belong to the young man -here, not to me.’ - -‘Guv’nor,’ said Joe, ‘I don’t doubt as the best that’s in that long -story as you’re writing out there comes out o’ your own ’ead. It stands -to reason as you know more about it than a young feller like ’im.’ - -The philosophical gull, who never learned wisdom, was touched by this in -the most assailable point. - -‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘Joe,--though how you’ve found it out I can’t -tell--that I have carried out a suggestion or two, and put in something -that seemed to me the logical consequence of what he said. But nothing -practical, for I don’t understand the practical part. And how does that -sort of thing give me any real claim?’ - -‘Guv’nor,’ repeated Joe, ‘you needn’t tell me. I know you, and how -you’re always giving up to other folks. It’s half yours and more, I’ll -be bound. And the best you could do for the young ’un is just what I -tells you. I’m practical, I am. If it was anything in my way, I’d do it -like a shot; but it ain’t in my way. The outsides o’ things has a deal -of power in this world. You in your fine respectable suit, you can go -where you please like a prince. But me, it’s “Be off with you--get along -with you;” they won’t say nothing of that sort to you. And you’ll just -make the young man’s fortune, that’s what you’ll do. Say as he’s the -very one to look after the works and knows all the practical part. They -ought to settle something handsome on you at once as your share and take -him on as foreman, or whatever it is; and in that way you’d both get the -best of it and all done well.’ - -The convict philosopher shook his head. He rose up from the table and -put the papers away. He admired the neatness of his own manuscript -extremely, and he was of opinion that he had done John a great deal of -good by the suggestions which he had worked out and the additions which -he had made. It was possible that Joe might be right, and that the best -thing he could do for his young employer was what the poor faithful -fellow had suggested. He had himself a great admiration, after having -been deprived of it so long, of his respectable suit and appearance, and -there was a great deal of plausibility, he thought, in what the man -said. But it was still clear to him that John might not think so. He was -not very rigid himself upon any point of morals, after his long practice -in thinking everything over, and blurring out to his own satisfaction -the lines of demarcation between right and wrong; but he could -understand that the young man, not having his experience, might think -otherwise; and he had even a sympathy for his want of philosophical -power in that respect. So he put everything aside very tidily, and put -his hand upon Joe’s arm and drew him away, shaking his head, but not -angry at the good fellow’s insistence. There was something in it--and it -might doubtless be under certain circumstances the most kind thing that -could be done for the young man. Still there was the difficulty that the -young man might not see it in that light. And Mr. March accordingly put -up the papers, and taking Joe by the arm, with a benevolent smile and a -shake of the head, led him away. - -It has been said that John’s rooms were in Westminster, not far from -Great George Street, where the offices of Messrs. Barrett were, and -where, as the reader needs not to be informed, various other engineers’ -offices are to be seen. March’s eye caught the names involuntarily as he -passed by. It was not that he was trifling with temptation, for he did -not consider Joe’s suggestion as temptation. He was only turning over -the possibilities in his mind, and merely as a matter of amusement, an -exercise of fancy, just as he might have counted how many white horses -passed in the street, or which windows were curtained and which not, he -read over to himself the names on the doors. Messrs. Barrett’s was one -which he weighed but afterwards rejected, as not liking the sound of it. -Another quite near had a name that pleased him better--Messrs. Spender -and Diggs. What a ludicrous combination! He laughed to himself at it, as -it caught his eye. Spender and Diggs--it was highly suggestive, which -was a thing dear to his mind at ease. It clung to his memory. He turned -it round the other way to see how it would sound. Diggs and Spender: -that was still more absurd. - -And all the time Joe’s voice was running on with arguments, the form of -which, simple and subtle and couched in that language of the rough which -is always more or less picturesque, amused his companion much. Joe had -penetrated sufficiently into the mind of his mate to know how to address -him. And that mind began to work upon the matter, with the amusing -addition of the name of Spender and Diggs thrown in, and a great deal of -pleasurable occupation in a question entirely characteristic and full of -the difficulties he loved. - -The result was that March appeared in the morning as the landlady had -said, and spent a short time, but only a very short time in John’s -sitting-room. The copy was completed, carefully folded up, and put in a -large envelope. All John’s notes, the originals, were scrupulously left -in their place, and in perfect order. For in some points his conscience -was of scrupulous nicety, and John’s notes were certainly his own and -not to be tampered with. As he was going out with the large envelope in -his breast pocket, John’s landlady appeared with the remonstrance which -had been on her lips for some days. - -‘You, sir, I’ve got no objections--a gentleman that’s pleasant spoken -and respectable even if he ain’t my lodger, but only a friend, that’s a -different thing:---- but your---- that man----’ - -‘My servant?’ said March, with a quick sense of the comicality of the -situation. - -‘Well, sir,’ said the woman, with hesitation; ‘I wouldn’t keep on a man -like that in my service if I was you.’ - -‘He is not as bad as he seems,’ the philosopher said, with a twinkle in -his eye, ‘but I foresaw your objections, and you shall never see him -more.’ - -‘If that’s so, of course, there isn’t another word to be said.’ - -‘That’s so; you may calculate upon it as a certainty,’ the pleasant -spoken gentleman said; and with a wave of his hand and a chuckle of -enjoyment he went away. - -The events thus described will explain the scene which John to his -consternation and amazement encountered when he stepped into Mr. -William’s room at the office, and found himself confronted by both -members of the firm. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -JOHN ON HIS TRIAL. - - -Both the partners were together in Mr. William’s room. They had been -having some sort of a consultation, it was evident, and both looked very -grave. When John walked in at his ease, though a little anxious, they -both turned round upon him with very serious faces--the younger man with -a grieved air, the elder one rigid and solemn, like a judge before whom -a criminal has appeared, whose conviction has been pre-accomplished, and -who has come up for judgment. Mr. William Barrett had the air of hoping -that some more evidence might be discovered which would possibly -exonerate the accused, but his father’s face showed no such hope. On the -contrary, something of the ‘I always knew how it would be’ was in his -look, as he turned sharply round at the opening of the door. - -John was greatly surprised: but still more indignant at this reception -of him. He walked up to the table at which Mr. Barrett sat. Mr. William -stood with his back to the dusty fireplace close by. Neither of them -spoke, but looked at him with that overwhelming effect of silent -observation which makes the steadiest footstep falter, and conveys -embarrassment and awkwardness into the most self-controlled being. John -said ‘Good-morning,’ and they both acknowledged it: Mr. William by an -abrupt nod, his father by the most solemn inclination of his head. The -young man did not know what to say. He stood and looked at them, -wondering, indignant, taking his little packet of papers out of his -pocket. What had he done to be so regarded?--or had he perhaps come into -the midst of some consultation about other matters with which they were -pre-occupied? He said, - -‘Is there anything the matter?’ at last, saying to himself that it was -impossible he could be the cause of such concentrated solemnity, and -looking at the younger partner with a half smile. - -‘There is a great deal the matter,’ said Mr. Barrett. - -‘Yes,’ said his son; ‘it’s rather a grave business, Sandford. I don’t -see it in quite the same light as my father. Still, it’s at least a -great want of confidence, a strange slur upon us, who, so far as I know, -have nothing to reproach ourselves with in respect to you.’ - -‘Certainly not, sir,’ said John: ‘you have always been very kind and -given me every opportunity; but I hope on my part I have not done -anything to make you suppose I am ungrateful, or have not appreciated my -advantages.’ - -‘We have nothing to complain of so far as the works are concerned. I -think, sir, I may say that?’ - -‘It is a point on which I should not like to commit myself,’ said the -senior partner. ‘These works at Hampstead, so far as I hear----’ - -‘They went wrong when he was away. He can’t be blamed for that: he came -back before his time and went over at once, and made every thing -shipshape again. He can’t be blamed for that. Whatever went wrong was -after his leave began.’ - -‘An engineer,’ said the elder gentleman, in his rigid way, ‘who means -to do justice to his profession, doesn’t want leave. The works are his -first interest--he has no occasion to go away to amuse himself.’ - -‘Oh, come, father! you’re making that a fault which is no fault--and we -have a ground of offence which is real enough. Sandford, you came here -the other day and told me of a scheme you had for draining the Thames -valley. You may say I was disposed to pooh-pooh it a bit; but I didn’t -say more than one does naturally with a young fellow’s first ideas, -which are always so magnificent. Do you think there was a reason in -anything I said for transferring the papers as you’ve done to another -firm?’ - -‘I transfer them to another firm?’ cried John, ‘you must be dreaming. I -have them here.’ - -‘You have them there? Then what do Spender and Diggs mean by spreading -it abroad that they have had such a scheme sent to them by one of the -pupils in our office, but which we had not enterprise to take up?’ - -‘Spender and Diggs!’ John was so well acquainted with the name of the -rival firm that it raised no sense of humour in his mind: but something -quite different, that sense of rivalry which is so strong between the -pupils and partisans of different schools. He made a little pause, -staring at his younger employer. And then he said, ‘I don’t know the -least in the world what you mean.’ - -‘There is no ambiguity at all about my meaning. I say that Spender and -Diggs are putting it about everywhere that a great scheme, worked out by -one of our pupils, for the draining of the Thames valley, has been -offered to them.’ - -John’s countenance grew pale with horror and dismay. He cried out, -sharply, - -‘Good heavens! Why, it cannot be Horrocks or Green?’ - -‘Don’t add slander to your other sins,’ said Mr. Barrett, severely, ‘or -endeavour to take away the character of young men who are quite -incapable----’ - -‘So they are,’ said John, in all good faith, ‘quite incapable. That is -true, sir; but I could not help thinking for a moment that I might have -left some of my papers about, and that they might have picked them -up--but you’re right, sir; they couldn’t do it--that is a great relief -to my mind.’ - -The young man was so undisguisedly relieved and so perfectly -straightforward in the whole matter, that William Barrett began to -doubt. He cast a glance at his father, who, however, sat rigid and -showed no relenting. - -‘Sandford,’ said the younger man, ‘you seem to speak very fair; but -there’s this fact against you--no one supposed it was anyone’s scheme -but yours; you are the only man in our office capable of anything of the -sort; we all know that. And it’s no crime; but it is a horrid thing all -the same--a caddish, currish sort of thing--to abandon the people who -have trained you and done you every justice, and carry what I have no -doubt you believe would be profitable work to another house.’ - -‘I--carry work to another house! It is quite impossible that you should -believe that of me. I might have thought it if you had said I had killed -somebody,’ said John, with a faint smile of ridicule, ‘for that’s a -thing that might be done in a moment’s passion--but carry work to -another house! You cannot believe that of me.’ - -‘What has believing to do with it,’ said Mr. Barrett, ‘when there are -the facts that can be proved? Don’t lose time bandying words, Will. -Sandford must see that after this there can be no further connection -between us. He knows, of course, that his place at Spender and Diggs’ is -safe enough. Let him have what is owing to him and let him go. I took -him without a premium for his mother’s sake, and for the same -reason--for Mrs. Sandford is a very worthy woman--I’ve given him every -advantage, although I expected something of this sort all along.’ - -‘Why should something of this sort have been expected from me? What have -I done? I have done no wrong--I have all my papers in my pocket. You -said you would rather have the rough notes. Here they are, every one,’ -cried John, taking out the papers from the envelope and throwing them -done on the table; ‘here are all the calculations, diagrams, and -drawings, and all. And now, Mr. Barrett, there is the question to -settle which you’ve just mentioned, which you raised long ago,’ said the -young man, with a flush of pride and anger. ‘That wretched premium! It -shall be paid before the banks close to-day. That, at all events, I can -settle at once. You have flung it in my teeth more than once when I was -powerless. Now I have it in my own hands. Your premium, of which you -have thought so much, shall be paid to-day.’ - -‘Stop there, Sandford,’ said the younger partner. ‘Father, I beg don’t -say anything more--let us understand the more important matter first. -You say you have brought us all your papers here. And yet I am informed -from Spender and Diggs that they have your scheme, all carefully written -out and elaborated----’ - -‘Ah!’ cried John, with a keen and quick sensation as if he had been -startled and could not draw his breath. - -‘Of course the information doesn’t come direct from them. They wouldn’t -be likely to do anything so friendly. Prince heard all about it from one -of their men. We can have him in, and you can ask him any questions you -like. Even if I hadn’t known by what you told me, I should have felt -sure it was you who had done it,’ said William Barrett, secure in his -own command of the situation. Then he added to the man who answered his -bell, ‘Ask Mr. Prince to step this way.’ - -Mr. Prince had stepped that way; he had walked up to Mr. Barrett’s -table, in his precise little manner, smiling ingratiatingly when he met -his master’s eye, and had told his story before John said anything more. -He stood a little behind Prince, so startled that he could scarcely -understand what was being said, though he heard it all--recalling his -recollections and making it plain to himself what had happened. He had -not been in the habit of doing rash things, nor was he one who gave his -confidence and trust easily; but as he stood in the office, hearing the -clerk’s glib story--and feeling himself like the spectator of the -strangest little scene on the stage, instead of standing, so to speak, -on his trial, and listening to the evidence of the principal witness -against him--a rush of suggestions was going through John’s head. - -The extraordinary fact which never had seemed at all strange to him -before, that he had taken into his house and into his confidence a man -of whom he knew nothing, except that he was a returned convict, showed -itself all at once to him in the clearest light. Even in his suddenly -awakened consciousness of what had happened, he felt that to call the -man whom he had thus trusted a returned convict, hurt himself as if it -had been a stab. It was on this ground he had made acquaintance with -him, because he was a man who had been punished for crime, and might -fall into crime again if he were not bolstered up by friendly help and -saved from temptation. This was what John had attempted to do, and, lo, -here was the result. He came gradually to himself through the hot and -painful confusion of this critical moment, and put a few questions to -the clerk which left no doubt on the subject. When Mr. Prince’s -examination was over, William Barrett turned to the young man, his -natural good nature and friendliness modified by the triumph of having -gained a complete victory. - -‘Sandford,’ he said, ‘I don’t pretend to understand your conduct one way -or another. You came back from your holiday before your time, to tell -me of this scheme of yours. I neither said nor did anything to -discourage you, more than one does naturally to a young man. You were -engaged in our work, and bred up in our office: that should have been -reason enough against going to any other firm.’ - -‘It is a thing which never entered into my mind.’ - -‘But it did into your actions, apparently,’ said the junior partner, -with a not unnatural sneer. - -‘It is what I have expected all along,’ said Mr. Barrett, piously -folding his hands. ‘It is what his mother expected, an excellent, -much-tried woman, for whose sake----’ - -‘Prince, you may go,’ said William Barrett, ‘and, for heaven’s sake, -father, stick to the question. Don’t bring in other things which have -nothing to do with it.’ - -John had a great struggle with himself. The foregone conclusion against -him with which he had so often been confronted was the one thing which -overcame his good sense and self-control. Ever since his grandfather’s -death it had been intolerable to him, and it was all he could do to -suppress the boiling-over of passionate resistance to this systematic -injustice; but with a great effort he restrained himself. He stopped the -departing witness with a wave of his hand. - -‘Let Prince stay,’ he said, in a choked voice. ‘I think I perceive how -all this has occurred. Look here, did your informant say who took the -papers to Spender and Diggs? Did he say it was I?’ - -‘I don’t know,’ said Prince, ‘that he knew you.’ - -‘I have not the least doubt that you asked him who it was. If he did not -know me, he must at least have known something about me. Did he say it -was I?’ - -‘Well,’ said the witness, somewhat unwillingly, ‘he didn’t know who it -was. He said he thought it was an elderly man: but there are many people -always coming and going about the office, and he couldn’t be sure.’ - -‘Do you think it likely,’ said John, ‘that I could have gone to Spender -and Diggs’ office without being recognised?’ - -‘Sandford, this is all quite unnecessary,’ said William Barrett. ‘I did -not accuse you of going to Spender and Diggs’ office. You might have -employed any agent; such a thing is not necessarily--indeed, it’s not at -all likely to be done by the principal himself.’ - -‘Then this is what I’m accused of,’ said John. ‘I came and told you of -my scheme, for as much as it’s worth. You did discourage me, Mr. -William, but good naturedly, telling me to go to Hampstead in the first -place. I obeyed you, and finished that work last night. This morning I -come to you with my papers in my pocket, ready to submit them to you -according to your own instructions; and I am met with accusations like a -criminal. Is it likely that between hands I should have gone to Spender -and Diggs? Why should I come here now with my original papers if I had -in the meanwhile sent a copy elsewhere? Do Spender and Diggs say they -refused them? What are they supposed to have said? Why am I supposed to -have come, the first moment I was free, back here----?’ - -‘Were you told they were refused?’ - -‘No, sir,’ said Prince. ‘On the contrary, they were taken into -consideration, and thought to have something in them. That was what was -reported to me.’ - -‘Why, then,’ said John, ‘should I come back here?’ - -There was a momentary pause; and then William Barrett broke forth again. - -‘What’s the use of talking of motives and reasons and why you did it? -Evidently you did do it, and there’s an end of the matter.’ - -‘And of our connection,’ said his father. ‘A young man that’s so false -to his employers can have no more to do in our works or our office.’ - -‘As you please, sir,’ said John. He had made a pause of indignation, -staring at his accusers, dumb with the passion of a thousand things he -had to say--but what was the use? He shut his lips close, growing -crimson with the strong effort of self-restraint. ‘I am sorry this -should be the end,’ he said, controlling himself desperately, ‘but, of -course, if that is your opinion, I have nothing to say. Good-bye, sir,’ -the young man cried, unable to keep back that Parthian arrow, ‘it must -be a pleasure to you that I have justified your certainty, and gone to -the bad at the end.’ - -‘Sandford!’ said William Barrett, as John hurried out; but the young man -was too much excited to pay any attention. The junior partner followed -him to the door of the office calling after him, ‘Sandford--I say -Sandford--Sandford!’ - -But John paid no attention. He rushed downstairs two or three steps at a -time, and over the threshold which he had crossed so often with the -familiarity of every day life. His feet spurned it now. He seemed to be -shaking the dust from him as the rejected messengers were to do in the -Gospel. No better servant had ever been, no more dutiful pupil, and he -was conscious of this. He had never been without a thought indeed of -advancement in his own person, of carrying out a work of his own: but -all his knowledge, the knowledge acquired out of their limits in the -privacy of his own self-denying and studious youth, had been at the -service of his masters and teachers unreservedly at all times. He had -never thought of sparing himself, of doing as little as was possible, -which was the way of many of his fellow-pupils. He had done always as -much as was in him, freely and with devotion. And as the climax of so -many faithful years, he had brought to them this first fruits of his -maturing thought, this plan so long cogitated, which had been to him -what a poem is to a poet--the work in which all his faculties, not only -of calculation and practical reason, but of thought and imagination had -been concentrated. It was to be the climax, and now it was the end. -Instead of sharing his honours with them and bringing them substantial -profit, as he intended, he was sent forth with shame as a traitor, a -false servant, a disloyal man. John’s heart burned within him as, -holding his head high, and spurning the very ground, he marched out of -that familiar place. - -The sting of injustice was sharp in his soul. He said to himself that he -would offer no further defence, that he would not attempt to prove the -deception that had been put upon him, or how it was that he had been -robbed at once of his scheme and honour. If it could be believed for a -moment by people who had known him for years that he was so guilty, he -would make no attempt to explain. If ever an accusation was unlikely, -unreasonable, inconsistent with every law, it was this. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -DEFEATED AND WRONGED. - - -He had walked a long way before he came to himself out of those whirling -circles of thought in which the mind gets involved when it is suddenly -stung by a great wrong, or startled by a poignant incident. With this -strong pressure upon him, he had gone right away into the Strand, and -along that busy line of streets into the din and crowds of the city, -feeling, like a deaf man, that the noise around made it more possible to -hear the voice of his own thoughts, and to endure the clangour of his -heart beating in his ears. He walked fast, not turning to the right nor -to the left, straight through the bewildering throng in which every man -had his own little world of incident, of sentiment, and feeling -undisturbed by the contact of others on every side. - -At first it had been the keen tooth of that wrong, the undeserved -disgrace that had fallen upon him, which had occupied all his -sensations. But by degrees other thoughts came in. He had left Edgeley -in haste to strike his blow for fortune and reputation, though he was so -young, to qualify himself for a new phase of life, to put himself nearer -at least to the level of Elly, to justify his own pretensions to her. -The scene in Mrs. Egerton’s room suddenly flashed before him as he -walked, adding another and yet sharper blow to that which he had already -received. He had said that he would succeed, that he should be rich, -that he had the ball at his foot. This morning when he came out of his -lodgings he had felt the ball at his foot. How could it be otherwise? He -knew the value of his own work. It was a work much wanted, upon which -the comfort of a district, the value of the property in it, and the -lives of its inhabitants might depend. And he felt convinced that he had -hit upon the right way of remedying this fault of nature which had -given so much trouble and cost so much suffering. What hours and hours -he had thought of it and turned it over! What quires of paper he had -covered with his calculations! It did not perhaps seem romantic work; -but all the poetry in John’s nature had gone into it. It had been Elly’s -work, too, though Elly could not have done one of all those endless -mathematical exercises. It had occupied his mind for two at least of -those early lovely years in which imagination is so sweet: and his -imaginations had been sweet, though they had to do, you would have said, -with things not lovely, cuttings and embankments, and drawings, and -figures upon figures, armies of them, calculations without end. His very -walks and the exercise he took, the boating which was his favourite -recreation when he had any time, had all been inspired and accompanied -by this. While he waited outside a lock, he was busy calculating its -fall, and the weight and force of the water, and studying the banks high -or low, for his purpose. He had grown learned in the formations of the -district, in its geology and its productions with the same motive. He -had marked unconsciously where wood could be got at and bricks made for -the future works, and when his eye travelled over the river flats to the -line of cottages with dull lines upon their lower storey, showing the -flood-mark to which the water had risen, there rose in him a fine -fervour as he thought that by-and-by all such dangers should come to an -end. Thoughts frivolous and unworthy, the light and trifling mental -dissipations that beguile young minds, and the insidious curiosities and -temptations with which they play, were all crowded out by these -imaginations, which were so practical, so professional, so enthusiastic, -so full of the poetry of reality. This was the way in which many months -had been occupied. And now----! - -It was a long time before John had sufficiently calmed himself down, and -got the mastery of those whirling circles of ever-recurring thought -which almost maddened him at first, to face the situation as it now -stood. At first, and for a long time, it appeared to him that ruin as -complete as it was undeserved had overwhelmed him; his good fame seemed -to be gone, and the bitterness of the thought that people who knew him, -and knew him so well, and who had years of experience of his integrity -and faithful service, should have at once believed him guilty of such -treachery, seemed to drown him in a hopeless flood; for how should he -convince strangers of his honour if they had no faith in it? or how -attempt to clear himself professionally when two of the chief -authorities in his profession believed him to have behaved so? Would it -be the best way, the only way, to shake the dust from off his feet and -rush away to the end of the world where a man could work, if it were the -roughest navvy work, and be free from false accusation and the horror of -seeing himself falsely condemned. But, then, Elly! John plunged again -deeper than ever into that blackness of darkness. He had boasted in his -self-confidence of the success which was awaiting him, of the certainty -of his prospects. He remembered now how Mrs. Egerton had shaken her -head. And now here he stood with his success turned into failure, his -confidence into despair; the people who knew him best refusing to hear -him. He had no fear that Elly would refuse to hear him; but who else -would believe? They would not, indeed, believe that he had been -treacherous, or played a villain’s part, as the Barretts did; but they -would think that he had mistaken his own powers, that he was not what he -imagined, that his account of himself was a boy’s brag, and not a sober -estimate of what he knew he could do. And how convince them, how remedy -the evil? Was it possible that any remedy would ever be found? - -He had gained a little calm when he began to ask himself this question. -Out of the whirl of painful thoughts and passionate entanglement of all -the perplexities round him, he suddenly came to a clear spot from which -he could look behind and after. He found himself on the bridge crossing -the river, having got there he scarcely knew how, coming back in the -direction of the office and of his lodgings after a feverish round -through all the noise of London. As he walked across the bridge, there -suddenly came to him a recollection of his first beginning--how he had -paused there with the letter in his hand with which he had been sent to -the Messrs. Barrett by his mother. He had paused, angry and wounded and -sore, and looked down upon the outward-bound ships, and for a moment -had thought of forsaking this cold, unkindly world in which he had no -longer any home or anyone who loved him, of tossing the letter into the -river and going his own way, and taking upon himself the responsibility -of his own life. He had not carried out that wild resolution. He had -swallowed all his repugnances, his pride, his rebellious feelings, and -accepted the more dutiful way: and till now he had never repented that -decision. He paused again, and before him lay the same great stream -leading out into the unknown, the same ships ready to carry him thither, -into a world all strange, where nobody would know John Sandford had ever -been accused of falsehood. The repetition of this scene and suggestion -gave him a certain shock, and brought him back sharply to himself. John -Sandford, John May--he had not then been sure which he was--his heart -had risen against the woman who was his mother, who had distrusted him -and taken from him his father’s name. Now he was more or less ashamed of -the boyish rashness which had set him against her decision in this -respect. He was John Sandford now, beyond any question. What if, -perhaps, this fever of indignation and despair which was in his veins -might die down and pass away, as the other had done? - -This brought him back to more particular questions. He had felt no doubt -from the first moment as to what had really happened: that the man whom -he had so foolishly trusted, whom he had no reason to trust, had played -him false, and carried off the copy which John had given him to do, out -of what had appeared to him pure benevolence, Christian charity--to the -rival firm. That was perfectly clear to him, though in his indignation -and fury he would not pause to explain. If it was explained ever so, it -would not restore the scheme thus betrayed to its original importance, -or place it, as he had intended, in all its novelty and originality and -ingeniousness, in the hands best able to carry it out. In any case, his -secret was broken, his ideas exposed to curious and eager competitors -who might, and probably would, take instant advantage of them. John -still felt that he was ruined, however it might turn out. And yet he -might clear his honour at least, and show how he had been himself -betrayed. He had begun to acknowledge this possibility, to breathe more -freely, to feel the fumes of passion dispersing, and the real landscape, -chilled and grey with all the rosy illusions of hope disappearing, yet -still real and solid under his feet, once more coming into his sight, -when he became suddenly aware of an approaching figure, very unwelcome, -most undesirable to meet at such a moment, yet not to be ignored. Why -should he turn up precisely now, that chance acquaintance to whom John -had committed himself in the impatience of his boyhood, and with whom he -had a sort of irregular, fictitious intercourse, more congenial to -Montressor’s profession and ways than to his own? It brought a sort of -ludicrous element into his trouble to meet this man, to whom he was not -himself but another, a being who had never existed save for that one -night on which he had enacted a sort of little single-scene -tragic-comedy as John May. Montressor was not a person to be eluded: he -came forward with his hands stretched out, his shiny hat bearing down -over the heads of the other passengers upon John, as if it had been a -flag carried aloft, with the directest and straightest impulse. - -‘Me dear young friend,’ he said, ‘me brave boy! how glad I am to see -ye.’ - -Montressor was a little better dressed than usual. The shiny hat was -new, or almost new, though it had somehow caught the characteristics of -the old one. His coat was good, his well-brushed aspect no longer giving -so distinct an accentuation to his shabbiness. He put his arm within -John’s in the fervour of having much to say. - -‘Fate’s been good to me,’ he said, ‘and when it’s so in great things -’tis also in small. Here have I been watching for ye, wondering would ye -pass hereabouts, to tell ye, me young friend, that once again good luck -has come Montressor’s way.’ - -‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said John; but what he felt was only a sort of -dull half pang additional, a sense that good luck might now come in -anyone’s way save his, which was closed to it for evermore. - -‘That I’m sure of,’ said the actor, ‘it isn’t very much we’ve seen of -ye, John May, and I don’t even know where to find ye. To tell the -truth, in me shabbiness and me poverty I didn’t care to know: for -meeting you in the street is one thing and pursuing you to your lodging -is another. No. Montressor was not one to shame his friends, even though -’twas virtuous poverty. But rejoice with me, me young friend--that phase -is over, never, I hope, to come me way again.’ - -‘Have you got an engagement?’ asked John, wondering and reflecting upon -the shabbiness which was as pronounced as ever one short week before. - -‘Better than that,’ said the actor. He put his hand to his eyes with a -mixture of fiction yet reality. ‘Me eyes are full and so’s my heart. -Pardon me, young man. Once you saved her life--never knowing that small -thing was the future Rachel, the future Siddons. Me dear friend! it is -Edie that has an engagement. Edie, me chyild!’ - -‘Edie!’ cried John, and then he laughed aloud at the thought. Edie, that -baby, to whom he had sent something the other day to buy a doll. - -‘Indeed, ’tis Edie, no one else. Ye haven’t seen her for a great while. -Ye don’t know that she’s sixteen or near it, and a genius. She has a -right to it, sir. It’s hers by inheritance. _My_ chyild, and her -mother’s--who under the name of Ada Somerset took leading parts for -years--I don’t grudge it to her, me dear May. She has had devoted care. -She has had a training, me dear sir, that began in her cradle--and now!’ -He laid his hand upon the heart that no doubt was as full of real -emotion as if he had not had a word to say on the subject. ‘And she is a -good girl, and the ball at her foot,’ he added, in a tremulous tone, -with water standing in his eyes. - -‘The ball at her foot,’ said John, with a harsh laugh. ‘So had I -yesterday--or, at least, so I thought.’ - -‘There’s something happened to you, me brave boy?’ - -‘Nothing’s happened: at least, nothing that’s wonderful or out of the -way. I’m supposed to have broken trust and disgraced myself. It’s like -the things that happen in your stage plays. I’m condemned for something -I never thought of, and robbed by one to whom I tried to be kind. Go -home and take care of Edie. Never let her try to be kind to anyone,’ -John said, ‘it’s fatal; it’s nothing less than ruin.’ - -‘Me dear boy, open your mind to me, and relieve it of that perilous -stuff. It is the best way. Come, tell me. Montressor has but little in -his power even now, but what he can do is always at his friends’ -disposal; and, if there’s a villain to be hunted down, trust me, me -brave boy--I’ll hunt him to the death!’ - -‘Why should I trouble you with my vexations?’ cried John. But in the end -he yielded to the natural satisfaction of recounting all that had -happened to a sympathetic--almost too sympathetic--ear. Montressor’s was -no indifferent backing of his friend. He threw himself with his whole -soul into the wrongs of the unfortunate young man. Indeed, so entirely -did he enter into John’s case that John felt himself restored to hopeful -life, half by the sympathy, and perhaps a little more than half by the -genial absurdity that seemed to glide into everything from Montressor’s -devoted zeal. The light came back to the skies more completely in this -humorous way than if some happy incident had restored it. He began to -see through the exaggeration of his friend’s feeling, that after all -there was something laughable in his own despair, and that a man is not -ruined in a moment in any such stagy and artificial way. - -While this change began to operate, and while John poured forth his -tale, he pursued the familiar way to his lodgings instinctively, leading -the sympathetic Montressor with him without question asked. The actor -had never before penetrated so far. It had not occurred to John to -invite him, especially as he had never informed him of his real name. -The fact that he had been so foolish as to call himself May to this -early acquaintance had raised a barrier between them more effectual than -any barrier of prudence or sense that such a friendship was not one to -be cultivated. But in the fervour of his confidence, and in the -enthusiasm of Montressor’s sympathy, the consolation of it and the -ridicule of it, everything else was forgotten. And John found himself at -his own door with his faithful sympathiser before he was aware. He had -opened it and bidden his friend to enter when his eye was suddenly -caught by a slouching figure on the opposite side of the street, which -aroused another set of feelings altogether. John thrust Montressor in, -calling on him to sit down and wait, and then turning with a bound -rushed across the street in the direction of this lounger, who, suddenly -taking fright, had turned too, and was hurrying along as fast as a -wavering pair of legs would carry him. The legs were unsteady, and -little to be depended upon, though sudden panic inspired them, and they -were worth nothing in comparison with youth and hot indignation now -suddenly set on their track. The chase lasted but a minute. John made up -to the fluttering, retreating figure, and was just about, with -outstretched hand, to seize him, when the pursued suddenly turned round, -meeting him with a rueful, deprecating, yet woefully smiling face, in -which the same ridicule which had been rising in John’s mind towards -himself was blended with a sort of helpless despair and insinuating -prayer for mercy. - -‘Stop,’ cried his amanuensis, the traitor who had ruined him, with that -rueful smile, ‘I’ll go with you anywhere--take me where you please. -I--I can’t defend myself.’ - -‘What have you done with my papers?’ cried John, trembling with hurry -and rage, yet subdued, he could not tell how. - -‘I’ll tell you,’ said the other. ‘I’ll tell you everything. Take me -somewhere and let me tell you.’ - -The young man laid his hand upon the old man’s arm, and led him back, -feeling somehow his heart melt towards the unresistant sinner. -Montressor stood at the door watching this pursuit and capture. He -waited for them as they came forward, his face expressing a sort of -stupefication of wonder. John only remembered the spectator when he -reached the door with his prisoner, and found this startled countenance -confronting him. - -‘Why, May!’ cried he, turning from one to another. ‘Why, May!’ - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE CULPRIT. - - -John’s amanuensis, whom he had so rashly trusted, had carried away his -copy of John’s scheme with, in reality, little or no idea of cheating, -and none at all of injuring John. His faculties were confused by long -courses of meditative sophistry, such as had been his amusement in the -years when he had no other, and by the criminal atmosphere in which he -had lived, in which the deception or spoiling of your neighbour was the -most natural matter, the best sign of talent and originality, at once -the excitement and the amusement of the perverted mind. The man who -called himself March had a more than usual share of that confusion which -so often accompanies breaches of the moral law. He had gone through far -more than usual of those mental exercises by which all but the most -stupid and degraded attempt to prove themselves right, or at least not -so far wrong, in those offences which to the rest of the world are -beyond excuse. And his mental ingenuity was such that he could make a -wonderful plea to himself in favour of any course which fancy or -temptation suggested. In the present case the effort had not been at all -a difficult one. He had really meant no harm to John. He intended, in -fact, to recommend John warmly, to put a good thing in his way. In all -probability the young man would not prove a good advocate for himself. -He might be shy of pushing his own interests: most inventors were shy -and retiring, easily discouraged: and what he meant to secure would not -in reality be more than a percentage on the trouble he would take in -recommending John. A percentage--that was what in reality it would -be--and well earned: for had he not been at the trouble of copying, and -indeed adding something of his own to the young man’s dry plans and -calculations, besides the service he would do him in carrying his goods -as it were to market and securing a sale for them, and a profitable job -for their inventor. Nothing could be more self-evident than this. At the -end he came to be quite sure that he was doing his young benefactor a -real service, and that nothing in his conduct wanted excusing at all. - -He was a little shaken, however, by his reception at the office of -Messrs. Spender and Diggs, and by their instant recognition of John’s -name, and their curious questions on the subject. Had the plan been -rejected by Barretts, they asked--and he did not even know what -‘Barretts’ meant. He was still more dismayed when he found (though he -ought to have known very well it must be so) that no answer would be -given him on the subject till the papers were examined, and that it -would be necessary that Sandford should come himself to elucidate and -explain them. There was quite a little excitement in the office, -evidently, about Sandford’s work and its presentation there. The partner -who seemed to him to be Diggs (he could not tell why, from his -appearance), came and looked over the shoulder of the partner who must -be Spender, and one or two others were called into the council and -questions asked as to whether young Sandford had left Barretts, whether -there had been a quarrel, what had happened. The ignorance he showed -about all this, brought suspicious looks upon him, looks which disturbed -all his calculations: for it had never occurred to him that any -suspicion could attach to him in respect of a document written in his -own hand, and which by that very fact surely belonged to him, more or -less. He was glad at last to get away, feeling a certain distrust -involved in the questions that were addressed to him, and beginning to -wonder what they could do to him if it were discovered to be without -John’s permission that the papers were brought here. Pooh! he said to -himself, but only when he had got away--nothing could be done to him; it -was no wrong to John or anyone. He had a right, a moral right, to the -work of his own hands: and it was in kindness he had done it; kindness -qualified by a percentage which is what the very best of friends demand. - -But if he was disturbed and troubled by this _contretemps_, Joe, who was -really throughout the matter his inspiring influence, was much more so. -He was angry and disappointed beyond description. He had expected, being -so much more ignorant than his principal, money immediate, a sum down, -for the papers which young Sandford had said were his fortune. He was -furious with the feebleness of his ‘mate,’ who had left those papers -without getting anything for them. - -‘I’d not a’ bin such a blooming fool,’ said Joe, whose adjectives are -generally left out in this record. ‘I’d a’ up and spoken. Money down or -ye gets nothin’ from me. Lor, if I had a ’ansom coat to my back like -you, and could speak like as them swells would listen to me, d’ye think -I’d a’ come back empty-handed like that?’ - -March was still more confused by this vituperation. It was in vain, he -knew, to convince Joe that such a rapid transaction was impossible in -the nature of things, for neither Joe nor his kind know anything of the -nature of things. They know that when they have anything to sell, money -is to be got for it, and that is all. Joe made his patron and dependent -(for the poor man was both) very uncomfortable on this subject: and -other things too made him uncomfortable; the necessity for communicating -with John, and informing him that he must see Spender & Diggs, and -explain his scheme to them; and the necessity for going back to Spender -& Diggs, which Joe had pressed upon him, incapable of hearing reason. -What was he to do? The poor man hung about the street in which John -lived, half hoping for an encounter which might clear up the matter one -way or other. When he saw John his heart gave a jump of pleasure and -relief in the first instance, and then the instinct of the offender came -upon him and he turned and fled. But what was his flight worth before -the pursuit of the active and impassioned youth who could have -outstripped his swiftest pace in a stride or two? And then the fugitive -said to himself that he was not really guilty, that he had done nothing -to be afraid of. Kindness, qualified by a percentage. The rueful smile -which was in his eyes when he turned to John was half conciliatory and -half made up of self-approbation and amusement at the success of that -phrase. Naturally, John was aware of neither of these sentiments. He -pushed his prisoner before him into his sitting-room, taking no heed of -the exclamations of Montressor. It was a trouble to him at all times to -hear that name of May from the actor’s lips, but it was his own fault, -and he could blame nobody. He thrust the culprit into his sitting-room, -and pushed him into a chair without saying a word. He was breathless, -not with the exertion so much as with the tumult in his mind, the -eagerness, and passion. He had not expected to find thus the means of -exonerating himself so soon, nor could he help a certain blaze of wrath -against the man who had done him so ill a turn. - -‘There!’ he said, waving Montressor aside with his hand. ‘Tell me first -why you did it. What induced you to steal my papers and try to ruin me? -Was not I kind to you?--was I not----’ - -‘Steal your papers!’ said the offender, with a look of surprised -innocence. ‘I stole none of your papers. The copy which I had myself -made at your request was surely by all laws of reason mine in the first -place, and not yours.’ - -John gazed at him with a gasp of astonishment at this extraordinary -doctrine, but for the first moment found nothing to say. - -‘I allow,’ said the culprit, with a certain magnanimity, ‘that had I -been engaged by you at, let us say, so much a day to make this copy, -with a full understanding that it was to be your property, your question -might be justified; but, as a matter of fact, no stipulations of the -kind were made. You suggested to me that I should come here and copy -your papers--with the benevolent intention of keeping me out of -mischief--I suppose out of the company which you did not think good for -me, of my faithful Joe.’ - -He had changed his position in the chair to a more easy one, and leaned -forward a little, speaking, demonstrating slightly, easily, with his -hand. John, in his sudden fury, and in the darkness of his distress, -felt the current of his thoughts arrested, and his mind standing still -with wonder. He gasped, but the words would not come. - -‘But there was no engagement,’ resumed the speaker, with a smile; -‘nothing was said about so much a day. My labour was not put to any -price, nor was there any time mentioned when it should be finished, or -anything said about its ultimate destination. You will see that I am -quite exact when you think over the circumstances. Isn’t it so? Well, -then, by all laws of logic, the copy was mine, and I had a right to do -what I liked with it; put it in the fire if I liked----’ - -‘But not to offer my scheme, my work, my ideas to--to--another firm,’ -cried John, in his confusion: ‘to an opposition--to a----’ - -He saw he had made a mistake, but in his excitement could not tell what -it was. - -‘Oh,’ said March, ‘I see! Now I understand; it is a question of rivalry: -they’re competitors--they’re on the other side? Certainly that wasn’t at -all what I intended: and now I understand.’ - -It was John’s impulse to seize him by the collar, to shake the sophistry -out of this bland usurper of his rights. But he did not do so. He -restrained himself with a strong effort, and recovered the thread of -reason which had been snatched for a moment out of his hand. - -‘We might go into that,’ he said, ‘if you had the least right to take -from me what was my work, and not yours. But you are too clever not to -see that this is quite a secondary question. Whatever you may say, you -copied those papers for me, by my orders, for payment. Bah! what is the -use of arguing about such a matter? You know it as well as I do. You -know my papers are stolen, that you have tried to make a profit of them, -that you have taken them from me, to whom they belonged----’ - -John’s aspect in spite of himself was threatening: his countenance -flushed, he changed his position, he clenched his hand. He was a -powerful young man and the other was feeble and limp if not very old. -Montressor, with his stage instinct, found it time for him to interfere. - -‘May,’ he said, ‘old friend, I have always stood up for you, though I -know you’ve done a dark deed. I’ve spoken for you even to this brave -boy. He’s your own name, and may-be for aught I know he’s your own flesh -and blood. Oh, me old friend! there used to be a deal of good in you, -though weak. How could you find it in your heart to do a wrong to a -young beginner? That wasn’t like what ye used to be, me old May----’ - -John had listened with a stupefied air to this speech. May! what did -Montressor mean? He caught him by the arm. - -‘The man’s name is March,’ he said. - -This brought, what all other accusations had not done, a faint colour to -the culprit’s face. - -‘One month’s as good as another,’ he said, with a feeble laugh, ‘and -begins with the same letter. So it’s you, Montressor. I didn’t notice -who it was: the outer part of you is in better trim than when I saw you -the other day.’ - -The actor replied, with a wave of his hand, - -‘What has to be thought upon at present,’ he said, ‘is you and not me.’ - -This was not the policy of the man who was on his trial. - -‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it’s the fortune of war. The other day I was able -to help you as an old friend, and now it’s you that patronise me.’ - -‘May,’ said John. He could not get beyond that point. What they said -between themselves was nothing to him. He paid no attention to what they -said. May! There swept into his mind a quick passing recollection of the -feverish anxiety he had once felt to identify somehow and find out his -relationship with some one of the name, and the Mayor of Liverpool, whom -he had almost disturbed in his state to ask, Do you know anyone----? But -he never met anywhere an individual who bore that name till now. - -‘Ye see before ye,’ said Montressor, embarrassed, ‘me young friend, the -unfortunate man that I was trying to recommend to you the last time we -met. He says true, he was better off at that moment than I was; but that -makes no difference. Yes, me noble boy. This is the May I told ye of. I -have thought there was a likeness in some things between ye; but me wife -would not hear me say it, for, John May, ye have the heart of a king: -and me poor friend there, though he’s named the same----’ - -The man, who had not been listening any more than John had listened to -the private conversation between his two companions, here woke up from -his own thoughts with a slight start. - -‘Who,’ he said, ‘are you calling John May? My name is Robert, not John -at all--if it is me you mean. My father’s name was John, an honest -worthy man. I always made up my mind to call the boy after him. What do -you know about John May? that’s not my name, not my name at all. I’m -rather in a weak state of health and I can’t bear very much. You -wouldn’t speak of such things if you knew that they threw me into a -tremble all over, which is very bad for me. Who do you mean by John -May?’ - -The three men looked at each other in a tremulous quiver of excitement, -like the flashing of intense heat in the air. They gazed at each other -saying nothing. Montressor, though he had hitherto been calm, was -growing agitated too, he could not tell why. There was a suppressed -excitement in the very air round them which none of the three could -fully understand. At this moment there was a knock at the door, which -they all heard, as if they heard it not, without an attempt to make any -reply. The world outside was for the moment blank to them; they had -something more important than anything outside to settle among -themselves. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -A CRISIS. - - -It had been about noon when John left Messrs. Barretts’ office. It was -now between three and four in the afternoon. His long walk, his talk -with Montressor, the agitation and excitement of the catastrophe had -made the time go as upon wings. But it had not gone upon wings at the -office, where there was a great deal of commotion and discomfort, the -pupils saying among themselves that for Sandford to go away in such a -way was next to impossible; that little Prince, the little sneak, had -told some lie--just like him; that the bosses, or the governors, or -whatever other name for the heads of the office happened to be current -at the moment, had made a howling mistake, and that the whole affair -was nothing but a proof of the general stupidity of those teachers and -overseers whom it is the mission of youth to dethrone. This agitation of -feeling was not confined to the pupil-room or the outer office. It -entered in, with the most serious results, to the very sanctuary of the -establishment, Mr. Barrett’s own room, where Mr. William had a -controversy with his father, which nothing but the decorum necessary -between the heads of such a government could have kept within bounds. - -Mr. Barrett was a pessimist by nature, and one who always expected to be -deceived and wronged. He had heard, he forgot what, that had led him to -expect evil of John, and to that idea he had clung during the period of -the young man’s training with the purest faith. He had to confess from -time to time that John had done very well so far, but---- He never -forgot to shake his head and add that but. Now he was, if it is -permissible to say so of a good man, delighted that his prophecies were -justified. He told his son that he had always expected it, ‘from -something his mother told me,’--though in the course of years he had -forgotten what Mrs. Sandford had told him, which was not much. - -William Barrett, however, was of another mind. He had liked John--he had -put full faith in him, he had appreciated his practical abilities, and -the good work he did, and his power of managing men, and had been -disposed to look indulgently upon any theories or plans he might have. -This was all the length his mind had gone when John spoke to him first -of that scheme for draining the Thames Valley. He had smiled at it very -good-humouredly--he had said to himself that when boys do take up an -idea it is generally a magnificent one, but that it is better even to -plan something on a ridiculously gigantic scale than to think of nothing -at all. He was prepared, indeed, to get some amusement out of John’s -Thames Valley. Perhaps there might be something in it, some idea which a -maturer brain could work out. There was no telling, but at all events it -would be worth looking at for the fun of it, if nothing more: a youth of -that age, with no experience to speak of, tackling a business which had -baffled the wisest! But it was like a boy to do so. Fools rush in--or -at least pupils rush in--where engineers sometimes fear to tread. - -So he looked forward with amused expectation to the production of John’s -scheme. But when Prince told him that story of Spender & Diggs, the -scheme took a different aspect in Mr. William Barrett’s eyes. It gained -an importance, a reality which nothing else could have given it. He did -not smile at the idea of this absurd youthful plan as presented to the -rival office. It became immediately a serious matter; a project of the -greatest importance. All at once it became possible, very likely, that -the other firm, who had nothing to do with John, might be about to reap -all the benefit of him, and to enter upon the greatest engineering work -that had been attempted for years, through this boy at whose plans -‘Barretts’ had smiled. William Barrett had no inclination to smile now. -It was deadly earnest by this time: and he could not but feel sure in -the natural certainty of events that this scheme which he had -pooh-poohed would be seen in its true light by the others, and would -make the fortune of Spender & Diggs. - -This thought had made him severe to John, though not so severe as his -father: and more open to conviction. His mind was at all times more open -to conviction than that of his father: and when John had burst out of -the office, in the first rage of his indignation, refusing to defend -himself, Mr. William, as has been said, followed him to the door, -calling him back, with a compunction which he could not get rid of. This -compunction did nothing but go on increasing in the blank which followed -that fiery scene. And the atmosphere in the pupil’s room affected Mr. -William, too, though he was not aware of it. He had a consciousness that -the lads were saying among themselves, in the slang of which all elder -persons disapprove, that the bosses had made a thundering mistake. Had -they made a mistake? He was, in his heart, of the same opinion as the -pupil-room. He did not think that John Sandford had done this thing. Now -that the flurry of discovery was over, he asked himself was it likely? -had the young fellow ever done anything that looked the least like it? -Had he not always been as steady as a rock, always honest and true, -never neglecting his employers’ interests, carrying out their orders, as -good a worker as could be? Was it likely he should turn round all at -once? This thought worked in his mind silently, while those boys -entertained each other with saying that the bosses had made a mistake: -and it was greatly stimulated by the exasperating suggestion that -Spender & Diggs might reap all the profit, and might go far ahead of -Barretts in the struggle for fortune and fame. Would they go ahead of -Barretts? He began to remember John’s start of surprise, his question as -to who it was that had carried his papers to the other office, his look -of enlightenment. If they had been stolen from him, and the papers which -he had flung down on the table, were, as he had said, his original -scheme, Spender & Diggs might not find it so easy to shoot ahead of -Barretts. On the whole, thinking it over, it was more likely that -Spender & Diggs had cheated than John. It would not be the first time. -They might have put one of their men up to it, to find out what the -young fellow was working at. Of course it soon got abroad among the lads -what one was doing--and what more likely than that the rival firm, old -hands at that sort of thing, people far more used to picking the brains -of other people’s pupils than to developing talent among their own, what -if they had secured possession of the copy of John’s scheme by one of -the underhand ways with which they were familiar? On the whole, that was -really more likely than that Sandford, a lad against whom nobody had a -word to say, who had always behaved well, should have gone over, without -rhyme or reason, to the enemy. - -By dint of long-continued reasonings like this, William Barrett worked -himself up by the time he left the office to seek another interview with -John. He said to himself that he would put his pride in his pocket, and -go after the young fellow, who no doubt was miserable, though he had so -much pluck he would not show it. His heart smote him that he had not -taken all these things into consideration before, and he had visions of -young Sandford’s misery and despair, which affected even the middle-aged -imagination of a man quite unused to anything heroical. He felt that his -father had been unkind to John, which gave him at once an impulse and a -motive for seeking the young man out--for, though he respected his -father, the junior partner was generally more or less in opposition to -him. All these things together made him determine to go after John, and -have it out with him. He got his address almost stealthily, as not -wishing anyone in the office to know until he saw what would come of it, -and set out from the office a little earlier than usual that no time -might be lost. He found the door open when he came to the house, and -being himself somewhat excited, and beyond the rule of common laws, went -in without ringing the bell; and, hearing voices in the first -sitting-room he came to, knocked at the door. He was thus brought into -the very midst of the agitated group which we have attempted to set -before the reader at the climax of their excitement. The voices ceased, -after a moment, but no attention was paid to Mr. Barrett’s knock. -Something of the excitement that was in the air communicated itself to -him. - -‘Sandford,’ said William Barrett, putting his head in at the door. - -They were all silent, staring at each other full of confused trouble, -suspicion, and uncertainty. Even John felt vaguely, when the original -question rose up before him in the sudden apparition of Mr. William -Barrett’s grave face, that another matter had since arisen which -swallowed up the first. The intruder who came in without invitation, -feeling somehow that here was a crisis above conventional rules found -that the interest centred like the high light in a picture in the -countenance of the man who sat at the table, leaning on it, his whole -person quivering with a tremulous movement like palsy, his face turned, -pale, with a half-anxious, half-fatuous beseeching smile upon it to the -other man standing opposite to him, who on his side looked from John to -the new-comer and back again with a look of amazement and confusion. -John himself stood half-stupefied between them, giving no more than a -glance of recognition to his employer, occupied with more urgent -affairs; and yet Mr. Barrett had good reason to know that his own -mission to this youth who was so strangely daring his fate, was in one -sense life and death. - -‘Whom do you mean by John May? John May’s not a common name, neither is -Sandford. Montressor, you’re stirring up all my life, and you know it. -Most things I can bear well enough. I’ve gone through a great deal. I’m -hardened to most things--but not--not--to my little boy’s name. You’ve -got a child of your own, and you ought to know. I’ve not seen that -little chap for fourteen years. I don’t know where he is now, if he’s -living or if he’s dead, and yet once he was the apple of my eye. -Montressor, what do you mean with your play-acting and your stage -tricks, bandying about what was the name of my little boy?’ - -John Sandford stood listening to these words which came out, with pauses -between, in a voice which was full of real feeling, a voice so different -from the easy sophistry, the humorous self-contempt, the confused -philosophy which were its usual utterance--with sensations -indescribable, and something like a moral overturn of his whole being: -vague recollections, suggestions from the past, horrible fears, doubts, -certainties, confusion, rose up in him, enveloping him like a mist. He -cared no more for William Barrett than if he had been an office-boy; he -forgot all the question about the Thames Valley. These things, though he -had felt them half-an-hour ago to be the most momentous in the world, -departed from him as if they had never been. He stood, scarcely able to -see for the haze of feverish excitement that had got into his eyes, -staring blindly, with all his faculties concentrated in that of hearing, -listening for what would come next. - -‘Sir,’ said Montressor, ‘ye do me wrong. The drama is the drama, and I -love it; but stage business is not, as ye say, for common life. Me own -name I don’t deny, if all were laid bare, is perhaps not Montressor. But -the poor player is likewise a man. Had I any stage effect in me mind -when I told ye there was one of your own name I would recommend ye to? -here he stands, and a young fellow any man might be proud of. The first -time I set eyes on him he saved me chyild’s life--judge if I was likely -to forget his name. This, me poor friend, is John May.’ - -‘That’s nonsense as I can testify,’ said William Barrett, breaking in -bluntly. ‘I don’t know who your friends are, Sandford, and perhaps I -ought to beg your pardon for interfering; but you’re very young though -you’re not perhaps aware of it. Come, gentlemen, if you’ve got any hold -upon this young man I shall be glad to answer your questions about him, -and let him attend to his business. He is in fact my pupil, and it’s not -to my interest his mind should be disturbed from his work. Whatever -stories you may have heard I must know more about him than you do. His -name is Sandford. He was placed by his mother in our hands.’ - -‘Sir,’ said Montressor, with dignity, ‘these are me friends, both the -young man and the old. I do not turn to strangers to ask for information -concerning me friends. Ye may be well meaning, but ye are ignorant--and -I find ye intrusive,’ said the actor, turning away with a wave of his -hand. - -‘Sandford!’ cried William Barrett. Capitals could not do justice to the -injured majesty of this cry. Intrusive! In the rooms of a pupil taken -without a premium (that even he remembered in the shock of the -indignity), such a word to be applied to him! - -But John said nothing. He was stupefied, or mad, or drunk, which was it? -He scarcely gave his employer a look. The colour had disappeared from -his face, his eyes seemed to have a film over them, his lips trembled. -He said at last, almost inaudibly, looking straight before him at -vacancy, - -‘My real name is John May--that was my name when I was a child--the -other--is my grandfather’s name.’ - -Then the man who had injured John, who had taken his plans from him and -robbed him, and made him appear a traitor, rose up tottering, supporting -himself by the table. - -‘If it’s your grandfather’s name,’ he said, ‘and you were Johnnie May -when you were a child---- God help us all, it’s fourteen years ago. Are -you my little chap, my little man, that I used to take out of your bed -in your nightgown, with your bonny bright eyes shining? Oh, God in -heaven, I’m not fit to be any good lad’s father. Are you my little boy? -Are you Johnnie May?’ - -The room and all that was in it swam in dark circles of confusing mist -in John’s eyes. He grasped a chair to support himself, to defend -himself; the floor seemed to give way under his feet. - -‘I’ll--I’ll come back presently,’ he said. - -Mr. Barrett thought more and more, with a grieved heart, that the young -fellow must have been drinking, as with a sudden rush he gained the -door, and clung to that again for a moment, like a man who has no -control of his limbs or movements. There he paused, and, looking at -them, said, - -‘Wait: wait here: till I come back----’ - -Mr. Barrett followed him quickly, afraid of what might follow. He found -John ghastly and helpless, sitting on the step of the outer door. The -young man gave a little nod of his head. - -‘Wait,’ he gasped, ‘I’ll be better--in a moment--I want a little air.’ - -‘Sandford, what is the matter? Something has happened to you; what are -you going to do?’ - -John did not answer for a minute. He sat with his mouth open taking long -breaths, as if the air had been a cordial which he was gulping down in -mouthfuls. The street was very quiet, there was nobody in sight, and the -air of early summer was fresh and a little chill in afternoon greyness. -Presently the young man rose and smiled faintly at his companion. - -‘I’m better,’ he said. ‘I’m fit now for what I’ve got to do.’ - -‘Tell me, Sandford, what is it you are going to do? Nothing desperate, I -hope. I came to tell you I was ready to hear any explanation--’ - -John waved his hand with an air of almost derision. - -‘Do you suppose I’m thinking of that? It’s gone far beyond that.’ - -‘What can be beyond that?’ cried the employer, with exasperation. Then -he seized the young man by the arm. ‘What are you going to do?’ - -‘I am afraid I must have a cab,’ said John, with his confused look, ‘for -quickness; besides that I couldn’t walk. All my strength’s gone out of -me.’ - -‘But what are you doing? What has happened? Where are you going now?’ -John looked at his chief, the friend of so many years, with a piteous -smile. - -‘I am going to find out--if there’s any hope for me--what’s to become of -me,’ he said. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -MRS. SANDFORD’S VIEW. - - -Mrs. Sandford sat in her matron’s room in the light of the bay windows, -making up her accounts as usual. She was regulating the lists of linen -in the hospital, the surgical appliances, the provisions of all kinds. -Her round of the wards had been made. The nurses had given their -reports, the special cases had been visited. Her day’s work, so to -speak, was done. The afternoon was the time for rest. She was occupying -it, as she often did, in this necessary, but not ostentatious work, upon -which so much of the comfort of the little community devoted to healing -and merciful service, depended. Mrs. Sandford was known to be a great -administrator: nothing was ever wanting, nothing to seek, under her -management; her stores never ran out. But she was so used to this work -of regulation and oversight that she did not find it very interesting. -Sometimes she would lay down her pen, sometimes even lean back in her -chair, which was not, however, a seductive lounge, but an ample, -comfortable Chippendale, in which you sat upright very much at your -ease, but had no encouragement to loll. She had things to think of apart -from the hospital. A letter lay on her table among all her lists and -account-books, which was from Susie, and there were things in it which -made this mother, who, after all, though perhaps of sterner fibre than -most, was still of the same stuff from which ordinary mothers are -made--both smile and sigh. Susie’s life was undergoing new developments. -A certain commotion was in it of new forces awakening, and new thoughts. -Perhaps, under the most favourable circumstances, Susie was not likely -to make such revelations as would justify any critic in saying that she -was ‘in love'; but there were in her letter indications, little eddies -which proved how the current went, straws that showed how the wind was -blowing. For one thing, she kept up a continual comparison between two -unknown persons, of which she herself was evidently unconscious, but -which her mother perceived gradually by dint of repetition. ‘Mr. Percy -Spencer tells me’--‘but Mr. Cattley says:’--she had told her mother at -first all about her visitors, and how these two came and went, and -talked of John. Susie had a great deal to say, too, of Elly, and had -made her mother aware of all that had gone on in that respect, and also -of Mrs. Egerton and her opposition, which by times extended to Susie and -by times ebbed away altogether, as circumstances, or humour, or the -weather moved the parish queen in one way or another. Those reports were -always quite simple, and often amusing, for Susie had a quiet way of -telling a story, very circumstantial and clear, which sometimes gave her -readers a more luminous and humorous view than she was herself aware of. -But Susie made no comparison in respect to the ladies of Edgeley. Their -intercourse with her was simple. It was her visitors of the other sex -who evidently produced this effect of balance and comparison in her -mind. - -‘Mr. Percy gave me his view of it; he takes very strong views; but Mr. -Cattley tells me----’ - -This was always the position in which these two appeared--Percy bringing -forward all kinds of opinions, decisive of many matters, social and -otherwise; but Mr. Cattley always adding a criticism or comment, -something that changed the issue. Mrs. Sandford, for the fiftieth time, -leaned back in her chair, and put down her pen, and asked herself, with -a faint, lingering smile, which softened her stern face, what Susie -meant. Susie was her own child, to whom her heart was soft, her -companion, the sharer of all her thoughts. The sternness which she had -shown to John had never touched his sister. Susie knew her mother -entirely, knew what she meant, and what her past life had been. There -were no secrets between these two. Of many things in his own -antecedents, John was ignorant, but Susie knew everything. All Susie’s -ways of thinking had grown under her mother’s eye. She had never -thoroughly known her son, but she knew Susie through and through. This -made the greatest difference in their mutual relations. Mrs. Sandford -was to her daughter both tender, and soft, and gentle. Susie knew how -to make her laugh, to bring tears to her eyes, whereas to John there was -no laughter in her. All this, and even the contrast with John, who was -in no such position, drew the mother and daughter more closely together. -And it was with all the mingled sympathy and alarm, and tender -prescience and pleasure, and regret of that relationship, that she saw -the moment coming when the child would find some one else to be nearer -to her, more a portion of herself and her life than even her mother. - -Mrs. Sandford felt, with that exquisite fellow-feeling which is like -divination, almost before Susie did, the development of a new affection -in Susie’s soul. And she leaned back in her chair between happiness and -sadness, pleased to see her girl ‘respected like the lave,’ though -already conscious of the desolation that desirable and good thing would -bring with it--asking herself, almost with amusement, Which would it be? -It was a mood more soft than was at all usual with her, and, -notwithstanding the darkness that must come with the fulfilment of those -dreams, it was a happy mood. That her mild Susie should have, not one -but two suitors flattered and amused her. Which would it be? Mr. -Cattley, in his mild, middle age, or Percy, the young priest, who had -never intended to yield to the weakness of love-making? This was the -subject of Mrs. Sandford’s thoughts: and other matters more painful, if -any painful matters were at that moment within the possibilities of her -life, had floated away like clouds from the languid sweetness of the -afternoon sky. - -There was something, however, in the sound of the hurried step she heard -approaching which roused her. It rang along the unoccupied passages, -quick, eager, hurried, yet with a little stumble of weakness in it, as -of excitement gone too far, and losing hold of itself. She listened, and -instantly sat upright in her chair, and put Susie’s letter away under a -bundle of papers. It was perhaps something very bad brought into the -accident ward, or the man in No. 4 had been taken with another attack, -or---- Then something made her start a little. - -‘It is his step,’ she said to herself: and _he_ was John, the boy as she -always called him in her heart. - -He pushed open the door without knocking, and saying hurriedly, ‘May I -come in,’ came in without waiting for permission. Her experienced eye -saw at once that he had received a great shock. Either in body or mind -he had been shaken violently. His hair hung in damp masses on his -forehead. He was without colour, save when in speaking he suddenly -reddened and then was pale again. A touch of personal disarrangement -made this agitation of his appearance more remarkable. His tie had got -loose, and he had not perceived it. Such a simple matter of external -appearance seems to set a seal upon the profoundest commotions of life. - -She cried out, ‘What is the matter?’ before he could speak a word. Then, -starting suddenly with that instinctive alarm which moves us for those -we love, added quickly, ‘Susie! You have had some bad news.’ - -‘Not of Susie,’ he said, in a breathless way. ‘Mother, I have come for -you. Come with me instantly, for God’s sake!’ - -‘What is the matter, John? I can’t go out like this, you know. I have to -make arrangements. What is it?--for heaven’s sake tell me what it is.’ - -‘I may never in my life ask such a thing from you again. Most likely I -shall never want it. If you have any feeling for me, for God’s sake come -with me. To me it is life or death.’ - -She put her hand upon his arm, and drew him towards her, looking in his -face, feeling with a professional touch his hands and the throbbing of -his pulse. - -‘Something has gone amiss,’ she said. ‘Your hands are cold, and yet your -pulse is high. You have had some shock.’ She got up as she spoke, and -made him sit down in her chair, and put her hands upon his head. ‘Tell -me what is the matter,’ she said, in that tone of mild determination -with which she overawed her patients. ‘You are not fit to be flying -about.’ - -There was something in the touch, in the maternal authority--though that -was scarcely more individual to him than to any other--which touched the -poor young fellow in the feverish crisis of feeling in which he was. It -was a relief to sink down into the chair, to feel even its wooden arms -giving him a sensation of support. And to have some one to fall back -upon at such a moment was the best thing in heaven or earth. He had -never wanted such a prop before. It was against all the principles of -his life to look for it, and yet there was the profoundest consolation -in it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the heat and the horror of -his thoughts relaxed a little. He had meant to seize upon her, to carry -her away in a whirlwind of passionate haste and anxiety, to confront her -with _him_, the stranger who had possession of John’s rooms, and seemed -to claim possession of his life. That had seemed at first the only thing -to do: to carry her off without warning, to bring her face to face with -that unthought of, unsuspected apparition, and demand of her, ‘Who is -this?’ Perhaps there had been in it a gleam of personal vengeance too, -the desire to recompense with a keen, swift stroke of punishment the -deception put upon him, and all the mysteries now suddenly let loose -upon his head. But the touch of his mother’s hand, the anxiety in her -voice, the kindness--though perhaps no more than any patient at the -hospital would have called forth--over-turned all these intentions in a -moment. He was wound up to such a passion of feeling that everything -told upon him, and the revulsion was great. He leaned back, touching her -shoulder, laying his head upon it. - -‘Mother,’ he said, like a child, with a pathetic voice of reproach, ‘why -did you tell me he was dead?’ - -‘John!’ she started so violently that the pillow of rest on which he had -leaned seemed to reject as well as fail him. ‘John!’ - -He turned round upon her suddenly, and caught her hands in his. - -‘Mother,’ he said again, ‘is it true? Mother, is it true? I have never -understood. God help me, was this what it meant all the time?’ - -Mrs. Sandford, who was so self-controlled and so strong, trembled and -quivered in his hold. She said, in a hoarse whisper, - -‘What has happened? Tell me what it is.’ - -He held her hands fast, and would not let her go, swaying a little -backward and forward as if he were shaking her, though he had no such -meaning. - -‘I have never understood,’ he repeated. ‘I must have been told what was -not true. Now I know: you ought all to have seen that I must be told -sooner or later. Is _that_ true?’ - -She was a woman of great resolution, and she freed herself from him, -though his hold was so close. She came round to the other side of the -table, and stood looking at him, with the steady look which had daunted -many a rebel. She said, - -‘You are ill; you don’t know what you are saying. I should not wonder if -you had had a slight sunstroke. You must go to Susie’s room, which is -cool and fresh, and lie down.’ - -And then there ensued a moment’s parley, but not with words--with keen -eyes looking into each other across the table. She stood as steady as a -rock, as if she were thinking of nothing but the accidental illness of -which she spoke. But John saw that the lighter part of her, the edge, so -to speak, the line of her black gown, the turn of her elbow, had a -quiver in them. He saw this without knowing that he saw it, as we do in -moments of emotion. - -‘Mother,’ he said, ‘it’s no mistake; it’s not illness. It’s what I tell -you. Come with me and see him: and if you can say then that it is not -true---- Ah!’ he exclaimed, with a sharp tone of distress, ‘you can’t. I -see it in your face.’ - -Mrs. Sandford did all she could to steady herself still. - -‘To see whom?’ she said. ‘To see----’ Then, with a long-drawn breath, -‘You are trying to frighten me. I know--no one of whom you can be -speaking.’ - -‘Then why are you afraid?’ he said. - -She kept standing, gazing at him for a moment more. Then a sort of -shivering seized her, and in a moment all her defences seemed to fail. -She gave him a look of agonised appeal, then came to him like a child -flying from a suddenly realised danger, and dropped down by the side of -his chair. - -‘Oh, John,’ she cried, clinging to him, ‘save me. I cannot see him--oh, -no, no! You don’t know what you ask. Say I am dead. Say I am---- Kill me -rather, kill me! It would be kinder. Oh, no, no, no, no! I cannot, I -cannot. I’ll rather die. Save me, John!’ - -A horrible dismay crept through and through him as he bent over her, -exclaiming, ‘Mother, mother!’ trying to soothe her--but above all a -profound, all-subduing pity. He had his answer; there was no possibility -of misunderstanding what this meant: but the sight of the convulsed and -broken figure clinging to him in utter self-abandonment penetrated to -his very heart. He clasped with his own the hands that held his arm. He -put down his head to the face which, full of mortal terror and misery, -looked up to him imploring his protection. His protection! for her so -strong, so self-sufficing, so immovable. To see her at his feet was more -than he could bear. - -‘Mother, I will; as far as I can, by every means I can. I will, I -will--mother, it breaks my heart to see you. Then it is true, all true?’ - -And on the other side there seemed to rise before him another picture: -the man with his smile arguing the question, persuading himself that -anything he had done was, if not wholly right, at least far from being -wrong, that it was the thing most natural to be done--with his air of -mental confusion, yet satisfaction, his amiability, his conciliatory -looks, his humorous self-consciousness, the subtle semi-intoxication -which seemed to have got into his character. These things had made John -smile a short time ago; they had filled him with a sort of compassionate -kindness, an amused toleration of all the ways of this strange specimen -of what human nature could come to. He was not amused or tolerant now. -He thought with shrinking of this new, never-realised, impossible agent -who had come into his life, impossible, yet, alas! real, never to be -ignored again. But the first thing was his mother, his mother who, their -positions reversed in a moment, clung to him with that face full of -panic and anguish, flinging herself upon his protection. She, who was so -strong, the embodiment of self-reliance and authority, to see her as -weak as water, as weak as any poor woman, imploring her son to save her! -He had never in his life till now given her more than the conventional -kiss which their relationship seemed to demand when they met and parted. -But now he held her close and kissed over and over again the white, -agonised face which was pressed against his arm. Presently he raised her -up tenderly and restored her to her seat--where gradually her panic -calmed down, and she was able to speak. But it was very terrible and -strange to John that she asked no questions, but took the miserable fact -for granted, as if it were a thing that must have happened, that she had -expected sooner or later, something inevitable in her way. - -‘The only thing is,’ he said, with a sigh of subdued impatience, ‘why -did you not tell me, mother. Why didn’t I know?’ - -His question brought the shivering back, but she replied, with an -effort, - -‘How can I tell you? We thought it was better so. I would not have you -exposed to that knowledge. You were so young--and then it might never -have been necessary--it might never have come----’ - -‘You mean that he might have died--there?’ - -‘It would,’ she said, bowing her head, ‘have been better so.’ - -‘Without anyone to stand by him or say a word, without love or succour,’ -he cried. Was there not another side to the question? He thought she -drew herself away from him with a renewed movement of alarm, and he -rose from her side, too pitiful to be indignant, his heart wrung with -contending thoughts. - -She held out her hands to him with another outcry of terror. - -‘Don’t go! I have no one. Don’t forsake me, don’t leave me alone! John, -John!’ - -‘I must,’ he said, ‘if I am to defend you, to save you, as you say. And -then,’ he added, ‘there is more than that: to take care of--him. He -cannot be ignored, mother; at least he has claims upon me.’ - -‘Oh, John! Stay with me, don’t go. It has not been for myself I have -feared most, but for you. It was always for you that I have feared, lest -he might get an influence, lest he might---- John, stay with me! Have I -not the best right to you? I that have----’ - -‘Distrusted me always, mother. I don’t blame you, but you know it has -been so.’ - -She covered her face with her hands. - -‘I am but a feeble, prejudiced woman. I claim no exception. I do wrong -trying to do right, like all the rest, John. I feared, God forgive me, -that you might turn out--I thought you were----’ - -‘The son of my father,’ he said, with a mingling of sweetness and -bitterness which gave something keen and poignant to the sound of his -voice. ‘And so I am--and so I must prove myself now.’ - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE CONVICT. - - -When John rushed away in the manner that has been described, Montressor -and the other were left together looking at each other blankly. They -said nothing so long as the sound of voices without betrayed that he was -still there. They sat listening, looking at each other, in silence, till -the sound of his footsteps had died away upon the stony pavement, and -the quiet street had relapsed into its usual stillness. The look which -they exchanged was like that of two convicted criminals waiting -breathless till the steps of the avenger had died away. Montressor, at -least, had done the young fellow no wrong, but he felt that he had -somehow unconsciously, involuntarily, been the means of bringing trouble -upon him. He felt like a culprit whispering to his fellow-conspirator -when he said, - -‘May,’ in a low voice, as if he might be overheard, ‘what does it all -mean?’ - -May looked up at him from where he sat by the table, leaning his -forehead upon his hands. He shook his head, but he did not make any -reply. - -‘May, we’re old friends. I never turned me back upon ye, though many -did. I’ve always felt an interest in where ye were, and how your time -was running on. I hadn’t much in me power, but many didn’t do that.’ - -‘Nobody did it,’ said May. ‘I’m like a martyr, a saint, in that, if in -nothing else, Montressor; everyone forsook me. I had not a soul to -inquire whether I was living or dead, but you.’ - -‘Hush, May, me poor fellow!--your wife and family----’ - -‘Do you know what they did? They disappeared, and left no sign of -themselves anywhere. They must have changed their name; they sent a sum -of money for me, but not a word. I came out not knowing if anyone -belonging to me was living or dead, or where they were, or what had -become of them. My wife may be at the end of the world for anything I -know.’ - -‘May be dead,’ said the other, ‘that’s more likely.’ - -The convict shook his head. - -‘It must have been she who sent me the money. I had a mind not to take -it at first. Like a bone to a dog to keep him from following you. I -thought for half-an-hour I wouldn’t take it: but after all,’ he said, -with a low laugh, ‘money’s not a bad thing in itself. It’s a make-up for -many things--when you can get nothing else.’ - -‘Me poor soul! if you’ve sinned you’ve suffered,’ said Montressor, with -a sigh of sympathy. - -The other laughed again. - -‘There’s something to be said on both sides. What’s sin? It’s a thing -that takes different aspects according to your point of view. And you -may say what’s suffering too? That is a pang to one person which would -be the course of nature to another. My friend Joe never expected to have -any welcome on the other side of the gates at Portland; not he. He was -content to get out of it, to go where he pleased, to get drunk -comfortably next night with nobody to interfere. He had no ridiculous -expectations. What you call suffering to me was bliss to Joe.’ - -Montressor did not know what to reply; nothing in his own life, and not -all the expedients of the theatre could furnish him with a fit answer. -He tried to throw into his face and the solemn shake of his head, -something which he ought to feel. - -‘All other things are according to your point of view,’ the other went -on; ‘but money’s absolute. It’s always a good thing in its way. I took -it, and I consoled myself that on the whole--that on the whole---- But -children have a droll sort of hold upon you,’ he said, quickly, with a -broken laugh. ‘I always felt I’d give a great deal to know what had -become of my little boy.’ - -Montressor stretched out his hand, and took hold of May’s across the -table. Both nature and the theatre helped him here. - -‘Me poor friend!’ he said. - -‘He was a delightful little chap. It might be because I was partial, you -know--but I think there never was a finer little chap. I used to go -upstairs, when I came in late, and fetch him out of his bed, out of his -sleep, his mother said, and looked death and destruction at me--but it -never did him any harm. I shouldn’t wonder if he remembered it now. I -think I see him in his white nightgown, with his two eyes shining, his -hair all ruffled up, his little bare feet.’ His voice ran off in a low, -sobbing cough. ‘I never saw such a little chap:--never a bit afraid, -though I wasn’t very steady sometimes when I carried him downstairs.’ - -There was a pause. Montressor had no stage precedent before him to teach -him how to act in such an extraordinary crisis: but Nature began to make -a hundred confused suggestions, which at first he could scarcely -understand. The stillness seemed to throb and thrill around them, when -this monologue ceased, demanding something from the actor, he could not -tell what; some help which he did not know how to give, scarcely what it -was. - -‘Me poor friend!’ he said once more. ‘You’ve done wrong, but wrong has -been done to you. And this little chap, ye think ye’ve found him? Ye -think he’s turned out to be this--this noble young fellow here? If ye -have an interest in him one way, I’ve got an interest in him in another, -for he saved the life of me chyild--of me Edie,’ the actor added, as in -the theatre he would have said these touching words, ‘who is the prop of -me old age, and the pillar of me house.’ - -May, who had been roused out of his musings by the question, fell back -into them as Montressor prolonged his speech, and now made no reply. The -other continued: - -‘Me interest in him is strong. I’d save him any trouble, or disturbance, -or distress--anything that was to humble him, or to shame him, or to put -a stop to him making his way. I’d do that, whatever it might cost -me--that I would, for me chyild’s sake.’ - -‘Your chyild?’ said May, with an imitation of the actor’s pronunciation, -which Montressor scarcely perceived, but which tickled the speaker in -the extraordinary lightness of his heart or temper. He laughed, and then -took up the conversation, changing his tone. - -‘A child’s a strange thing. It’s yourself in a kind of way, and yet it’s -nicer than yourself. The naughtier it is, the nicer it is. It’s endless -fun. I don’t know,’ he said, with a wave of his hand, ‘what the -relationship is when it exists between you and somebody that, so to -speak, is as old as yourself.’ - -‘Me poor May! but that’s a thing that can’t be.’ - -‘Myself, for instance,’ continued the philosopher. ‘I’m father to a -child, not to a man. My little chap, if he had lived, would be---- I -don’t know,’ he added, after a pause, ‘that I’d be very sorry to hear he -had died.’ - -‘Hush, May!’ said the other, with an outcry of dismay. ‘I wouldn’t -believe ye. Ye can’t mean it, whatever ye may say.’ - -‘Why can’t I mean it? My little chap belongs to me, whatever happens. He -had always a smile and a kiss for his father; he was never afraid of me; -he never looked at me stern, like his mother. Now, if he should happen -to have grown into--something like this young fellow here----’ - -‘Ye would be a lucky man, not a luckier man in all England: a brave boy -of whom any father might be proud.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the vagrant, with a long-drawn breath, which ended in a faint -laugh, ‘and would he, do you think, be proud of me?’ - -There was another silence, for Montressor was daunted, and felt once -more that even the resources of his profession failed him; and May went -on, after the telling interval of that pause. - -‘A young fellow that is the pink of respectability, that never took a -drop too much, nor went an inch out of the way in all his life! Lord, -Montressor, think what it would be to be set down for life, to be -overlooked by a fellow like that! to see in his eyes what he thought of -you! I’m a poor wretch that can’t live without a laugh. I couldn’t, you -know, if I were, as people used to say, within the ribs of death. I’ve -made the best of things, and reasoned them out, and got a little fun out -of them wherever I was. I know what would happen well enough. When I -talked to him the other day, I was a sort of a strange beast to him that -he was very sorry for. It nearly brought the tears into his eyes to hear -me talk. I could almost tell you what he was thinking. “Poor beggar!” he -was thinking, “it’s all wrong and horrible, but if it gives him a -little consolation in his misery----” He was awfully kind.’ - -‘He’s the kindest heart I ever came across,’ cried the actor, with an -exaggeration which was very allowable in the circumstances, ‘and liberal -as the day, and never forgets a friend.’ - -This May dismissed again with a wave of his hand as something outside of -the question. - -‘He was awfully kind. It looked like what you call the voice of nature -on the stage, Montressor. One doesn’t often come across it anywhere -else. Do you know he picked me up dr---- well, as the policemen say, a -little the worse for liquor--in the street? Think of it, a young man -that is the flower of respectability--that never consorted with the -wicked. And after seeing me unadorned like that, and knowing where I -came from, which Joe did his best to publish, taking me in, establishing -me here, and giving me his papers to copy! By the way, I’m a little -sorry about these papers,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps it was stretching a -point to take them away--convey the wise it call--though they weren’t -his, strictly speaking, you know; he hadn’t paid for them or made any -bargain; but still a Puritanical person might say---- It was all that -sophist Joe, a casuist born, though he doesn’t know a rule of logic. And -then the ridiculous name of those engineer people caught my fancy. -Spender & Diggs, don’t you know; it’s grotesque. That tempted me. But, -perhaps, after all, it was stretching a point--the jury might say it was -a breach of trust. I think I’ll go and get them back.’ - -‘Me friend!’ cried Montressor, ‘there I see ye as I always liked to see -ye--generous, whatever else.’ - -‘Yes,’ said May, with some complacency, ‘I flatter myself I always was -that; but few people knew the line to take with me. The talk has always -been about justice. As if justice was a thing to be defined! If every -man had his deserts, which of us would be uppermost, I wonder? Not those -fellows in scarlet that sentence other men, or the pettifogging -shopkeepers on a jury that know about as much of justice---- I think -I’ll go and get those papers back.’ - -‘Come on; I’ll go with ye--I’ll stand by ye in a righteous cause!’ cried -Montressor, starting to his feet. - -‘Gently,’ said May, looking at him with mild eyes, leaning back in his -chair. ‘It’s too late to-day. I’ll go to-morrow as soon as I’m up; and -as for that old casuist Joe----’ - -‘What’s Joe, or any other man,’ said Montressor, ‘in comparison with -what’s generous, me friend, and kind? Here’s a young man, and as fine a -young man as ye’ll see, that’s been good to ye--even if there’s nothing -more in it.’ - -‘Even if there’s nothing more in it,’ said May, in his mellow, melting -voice. ‘And there may be more in it, Montressor. There may be little -Johnnie in it, God bless him, my nice little chap!’ - -‘Me friend,’ said Montressor, with enthusiasm, ‘there may be little -Johnnie in it, grown up to be a credit to all that belongs to him, to be -the prop of your old age and the blessin’ of your life, like me own -Edie--to thank ye for saving him from ruin, to bless ye----’ - -‘Hold hard!’ said the other. ‘Montressor, my good fellow, your eloquence -is carrying you away. Thank me for saving him from ruin! It was hauling -me up for stealing his papers that he was thinking of----’ - -‘But not,’ cried John’s advocate, ‘not since he knew--not since it -began to dawn upon him, poor boy----’ - -The convict put out his hand--and the actor stopped short in his appeal. -They sat silent once more, looking at each other with thoughts that were -too deep for speech. It was May who took up the broken sentence at last. - -‘Ay,’ he said, ‘when it began to dawn upon him, poor boy, that the man -he had picked up out of the streets, the man he had been so charitable -to, the man he had trusted and that had betrayed him, the convict from -Portland, was his father! Good Lord! Think of this happening to a proud, -virtuous, self-conceited, right-minded, well-behaved young prig like -that!’ He burst into something that sounded like a laugh, and yet was -more miserable than any outcry of despair. ‘Think of that, Montressor,’ -he said again, after a moment. ‘That’s stranger than any of your stage -effects. Poor young beggar! all made up of pride and honour and -rectitude, and all that, and as ambitious as Alexander to boot.’ He got -up for a moment and stood by the table and looked round him. ‘I think -I’ll go away. I think I’ll go right away and take myself out of the -boy’s road. What would be the good of torturing him, and making him try -to be respectful to his father? He’d be respectful--and awfully -disagreeable,’ he added, with a lighter laugh. ‘I’ll not wait for him -any longer. I’ll go right away.’ - -‘Me noble friend! it’s your true heart that speaks!’ cried Montressor, -seizing him by the arm. ‘Me house is open to you, May, and me -heart--come with me.’ - -May looked round upon the room, the fire of his sentiment dying out, the -habitual twinkle coming back to his eye. - -‘It’s a dreadfully respectable little place,’ he said. ‘Tidy--not a -thing out of order. Could you imagine a comfortable pipe and glass here? -And I know how he would look at me. It makes a difference when it’s a -relation. A poor man off the streets is the sort of thing you can be -kind to without derogation--but not a--father. I’m not the sort of -father for a man. A little boy like my little chap wouldn’t mind; but a -fine, respectable young man! And women don’t mind so much--that is, some -women. How old is your Edie, Montressor, and what sort of a girl?’ - -‘Sixteen, and an angel,’ said the actor, ‘and dances like one: and she’s -the prop of me house.’ - -‘Sixteen--you must take me to Edie. Sixteen’s too young to ask many -questions: and when it dances besides! But you’ve got a wife?’ - -‘She’s an angel too, May.’ - -‘It’s you that are lucky, Montressor. I wonder if I’ve still got a wife? -She was a sort of an arch-angel, don’t you know, too high-minded, too -grand for the like of me. I wonder if she’s alive. Yes, she must be -alive. Nobody but she would have sent me that money without a word. -Perhaps, Montressor, it’s her he’s gone to consult.’ - -‘Never mind, me friend. Let’s think no more of them. Let’s go away.’ - -‘It will be so,’ said May, as if speaking to himself; ‘his mother--that -master of his said. Confound all jealous masters, he will cause me a -deal of trouble getting those things back. Ay, the mother! she’ll tell -him everything, she’ll not spare the old riotous good-for-nothing--his -father!’ Here the voice changed. ‘A father like me,’ he added, ‘isn’t -for a young man, Montressor; you’re right in what you say. I’d do for a -boy, a little fellow like my own little chap. He and I could go away -together where nobody ever heard of us. Get a little farm in the -country, perhaps, and a spade, and--that sort of thing: and the poor -little beggar would never know. But for a man that is respectability -itself, and all that---- No, no, you’re right, Montressor. Take me to -your angel that dances, and the other one--what does she do?--perhaps -she sings.’ He burst forth into a tremulous, broken laugh. ‘Two -angels--instead of my own little chap. You’re right, Montressor. Don’t -let us wait for the poor boy that’s coming back broken-hearted. Who -knows, if I weren’t such a good-for-nothing, if I weren’t such a -reckless fool, I might be broken-hearted too.’ - -‘Me poor friend!’ the actor cried, ‘as long as I have a roof over me -head, come; it’s but a poor place, but ye’ll be welcome. Montressor’s -door is never shut against trouble and sorrow. And when ye see me Edie -dance--and she’ll dance to ye as if ye were a crowned head--ye’ll -forget everything.’ - -‘Ah, I’ll forget everything,’ said the other; he added, musing, ‘I’ll do -that easy, whether or no.’ - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE FIRST SHOCK. - - -John left the hospital, he scarcely knew when, and could not tell how. -He had forgotten, though he never could for a moment forget, that he had -left waiting for him the two men, the man who---- Remember him!--it -seemed to John an impossibility that ever again, even if he lived a -hundred years, he could forget what had been revealed to him that day, -or the look of the man’s face, who suddenly in a moment had lifted the -veil of his own childish life, and made the playful, sweet recollection -which had never died out of his mind an instrument of torture. - -He was conscious when he came out from under the shadow of the great -building in which his mother’s life was spent, and found himself on the -bridge with the clear vacancy of the river on each side of him, that the -afternoon had waned, that the sun was going down, and that a sentiment -of the coming evening, with its rest and quietness, was already in the -air. But that a long time had elapsed since in hot haste and excitement -he had crossed that bridge, going to demand from his mother an -explanation of this horror, he could not tell. It was a moment, an age, -he could not tell which. Despair had been in his soul, mingled with a -passionate determination that this thing should not be, when he went: -but he was still and silent as he returned. He had not received either -explanation or proof. His mother’s panic was proof enough on one side, -as were the few words that he had said on the other. These words alone -were unanswerable, unforgettable. If the convict had vanished from his -eyes unnamed, John felt that his fond recollection of that child in his -night-gown was enough to have proved all the terrible story. For who -could know it but himself and one other, himself and his father? - -His father! What a name that was, full of tenderness, full of honour, a -name that could neither be obliterated nor transferred, nor lost in -forgetfulness. A man’s father is his father for ever, whatever -circumstances may arise. John, the son of----: is not that the primitive -description, the first distinction of every man, the thing which gives -him standing among his fellows? The mother may or may not have a name of -her own, a reputation of her own--what does it signify? John, the son of -Emily Sandford!--oh no, that was not his natural description. He was -John, the son of Robert May. And Robert May was the convict whom he had -picked up in the street, of whom he had been so kindly indulgent, so -contemptuously tolerant. - -John did not follow this train of thought. It gleamed before him as he -went along, that was all; and once more he paused on the middle of the -bridge, remembering how he had done so before at the different crises of -his life. How he had smiled not so many days ago, on his birthday, when -he passed over it and thought of his own boyish despair at seventeen, -and the impulse he had felt to rush away, and cut all the ties that -bound him, and go off to the ends of the world to struggle out a career -for himself all alone. At twenty-one he had looked out over the same -parapet, on what seemed the same outgoing sails, and had laughed to -himself in high self-complacence and content at that foolish petulance -of his youth. It was not yet three weeks ago--but then he had felt -himself the master of his own fate with prosperity and hope in every -circumstance of his life--the ball at his foot as he had said. Not three -weeks ago! and now here he stood a ruined man, crushed by disgrace and -humiliation, and made to appear as if in his own person he deserved that -doom--the son of his father!--doing what he had always been expected to -do, betraying those who trusted in him. John grasped the stony parapet -and looked--oh no, with no idea of self-destruction--that was an -impossible as it was a contemptible mode of escape: but with a bitter -indignant persuasion that his early plan would have been the best, and -that to have gone away beyond the knowledge of any who had ever heard -his name--away into the unknown, fatherless, motherless, -friendless--would have been after all the most expedient for him, the -only wise thing to do. - -A convict: a convict! He went on afterwards setting his teeth, saying -this to himself. It was not a thing that could be thought over calmly: -his thinkings got into mere repetition to himself of these words, which -seemed to circle about him like the flies in the air as he walked on. A -convict! There was not the slightest reason to doubt it: it proved -itself: no man but one could have held in his imagination and -recollection that old innocent picture which had been John’s so long. -The pretty innocent little picture that might have come out of a child’s -book, with its little spice of innocent wrongness, the baby disorder, -the mutinous pleasure of it! It had been sweet to his memory for -years--and now all at once it became horrible, a thing his heart grew -sick to think of. - -John felt that to few people could it be so horrible as it was to him. -Honour and integrity, and noble meaning, and a high scorn of everything -base had been the very air he breathed. He had stood on this foundation -as some people stand on wealth, and some on family and connections. The -other pupils in the office had in many cases possessed a foundation of -that other kind: but, as for John, he had always stood high on those -personal qualities, on the fact that no reproach could be brought -against him, and that whatever records were brought to light he never -could be shamed. That very morning when he set out to go to the office, -puzzled about the loss of the copy, but fearing nothing, feeling in all -heaven and earth no shadow of anything to fear, with his papers in his -pocket, there was not so much as that cloud like a man’s hand to warn -him. And yet he had been on the eve of irremediable and ruinous -disgrace. Only to think of it--this morning with a spotless reputation -and every prognostic in his favour: and now--a convict’s son! - -When the soul is overcome in this way with sudden trouble, how -constantly does the sufferer feel that the blow has been administered -skilfully in that way of all others which cuts most deeply. There were -many other kinds of suffering which John could have borne, he thought, -patiently enough--but this! Shame! It was the defeat of all his -efforts, the keen and poignant contradiction of all he had striven -after. And he was wise enough to know that the first impulse of -indignant resistance and that cry of despair with which a man protests -that he cannot and will not bear what has befallen him--were alike -futile. There it was, not to be got over; and bear it he must, whatever -ensued. - -In this maze of dreadful thought, he came home to the little rooms in -which his virtuous and austere young life had been passed, not knowing -in the least what he was going to do, feeling only that he must -acknowledge the--man--the convict--acknowledge him, and thus give him -more or less the command of his life. John had been in a fever of -excitement and suspense when he went away. He was now calm enough, quite -quiet and resolute, though he had as yet no plan of action. He walked -quickly, absorbed in himself and the consequences to himself, without -thinking of what might have happened on the other side; not able, -indeed, without a sinking sensation, to think of the other side at -all--and pushed open the door which was unlatched. Probably he had left -it so when he went out, he could not tell. He did not remember indeed -anything about how he had come out. Mr. Barrett’s appearance and every -secondary circumstance had disappeared from his mind; yet he woke, as he -felt the door give way under his hand, to the idea that he must have -left it so. It is not a thing to do in London, not even in a quiet -little street out of the way. Probably he had done it in his madness in -the first shock of his dismay. - -It gave him an extraordinary check in the height of his concentrated -self-control, to find everything empty when he came in. There was no -trace even that anyone had ever been there. The respectable little -sitting-room looked exactly as it had done ever since he knew it--the -chairs put back in their places, the _Standard_ carefully folded upon -the table where he had left it in the morning, no appearance anywhere -that anything had happened since then. He stood still for a moment with -a gasp of dismay, wondering whether he had only dreamt all this, if it -had been a mere nightmare, a feverish vision. Could he but persuade -himself that this was so, that he was the same John Sandford he had -been in the morning, with the ball still at his foot! For the moment a -wild hope gleamed across him; but it was only for a moment. He sat down -and stared about him, wondering to see everything the same. All the -same! yet altogether changed, as no external convulsion could have -changed it: an earthquake would have been nothing in comparison. If a -bomb had suddenly exploded upon the decent carpet among the inoffensive -furniture, and shattered the innocent house to pieces, what would that -have been in comparison? These were the ridiculous thoughts that came -across his mind, and almost made him laugh in the first revulsion of -feeling, which was disappointment and relief, and yet was nothing at -all. For what did it matter? The thing had been, and could not be wiped -out. It existed and could never be swept away. Ignore it if he could, -forget it even if he could, there all the same it would be. He could not -be rid of it ever, for ever. He sat silent awhile realising this, and -then rose and went to ring the bell: but, before he could touch it, he -was startled by a tap at the door. - -It was only his landlady who came in--but she had her best cap on, and -looked as if she had something to say. She was embarrassed, and turned -round and round on her finger a ring which was too big for her. - -‘If you please, Mr. Sandford----’ she began. - -‘Yes? I left two--people here. Do you know where they have gone?’ - -‘That’s why I made so bold as to come in, Mr. Sandford. I don’t like -saying of it, sir. You have always been a gentleman as I’ve been glad to -have in my house.’ - -‘Yes. What message did they leave? Where have they gone? I came back -expecting to find them here.’ - -‘I never was fond of young gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Short, taking out her -handkerchief. ‘They pay well, as a rule, and they don’t give much -trouble, being out all day: but I’ve always been afraid of them. They’re -chancy-like--you don’t know what they may do, or who they may bring.’ - -‘Another time,’ said John, ‘if you’ve anything to say to me--but at -present I want to know what message---- Did they say where they were -going?’ - -‘The gentlemen said nothing to me, nor to no one. They just scuttled out -of the house, leaving all the chairs about. I thank my goodness gracious -stars that I can’t see nothing gone: but, Mr. Sandford--I’ve a great -respect for you, sir, as a gentleman that can take care of yourself when -many can’t, and always tidy, and keeps no bad company, leastways never -did till now----’ - -John only half understood what she was saying, but he caught at the -words bad company, and replied, with a faint laugh, - -‘I’ve been very particular about that, have I not?’ he said. - -‘Yes, sir: to do you justice, you’ve been very particular. And that -makes me feel it all the more. Do you know, Mr. Sandford, who’s been out -and in of _my_ house all these days, sitting in my parlour, like he was -the master? Oh, don’t tell me, sir, as you knew all the time! A man as -has just come out of prison, a man as has just served out his time, and -that was fourteen years. Mr. Sandford, don’t tell me as you knew!’ - -‘Yes,’ said John; ‘I knew; but I didn’t know----’ here he stopped and -gazed at her, quieted he could not tell by what sentiment, and feeling -as if the words hung suspended in the air which he ought to have said. -‘I didn’t know he was--my father’--that was what he had intended to say. - -‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ the woman said. ‘You’ve always been most regular, -paying to the day, and always civil, and a pleasure to serve you; but I -can’t do with that sort of visitors in my house. I can’t, sir; I’ve got -my character to think of. I’ve told Betsy, if they come again, to shut -the door in their face. And, Mr. Sandford, it’s a week’s notice, please, -sir. I don’t doubt but you can easy suit yourself. There are folks that -think nothing of their character so long’s they get a good let: and -except for this I haven’t got a word, not a word, to say against you.’ - -John stared at her blankly, taking her meaning with difficulty into his -mind: then gradually perception came to him. - -‘You want me,’ he said, ‘to go away?’ - -‘Yes, sir, that’s what it’s come to,’ the woman said, clearing her -throat. - -John kept his eyes upon her--trying to intimidate her, she thought; in -reality, trying to fathom her, to make out what she meant--then he burst -into a sudden laugh. - -‘To go away--for what? Because I am--in trouble, because my life is not -so happy as it has been. Well, it is a good reason enough. Yes, Mrs. -Short, I’ll go.’ - -‘You--in trouble, sir!’ The woman’s voice rose into a sort of shriek. -‘Oh, Mr. Sandford, what have you done? you that were always so -respectable. Can’t you put it right? Oh, Mr. Sandford, I never thought -of that. How much is it? Tell your ma, sir, and, whatever it costs her, -she’ll set it right.’ - -John found himself strangely amused by all this. It came into the midst -of his misery like a scrap of farce to relieve his strained bosom by -laughter. He knew well enough, too, the phraseology and ways of thinking -of his landlady, and he tried to understand the idea he had suggested to -her imagination; and half to keep up the joke, though it was a poor -one, half because he was incapable of explanations, he made no other -reply. - -‘Oh, Mr. Sandford,’ she cried again, coming up to him, laying her hand -on his arm, ‘excuse me if I make too free; but tell your ma, sir, for -the love of God. She’ll not let you come to shame for a bit of money. -Oh, no, no, no! I can tell by myself. I never breathed a word of it to -any mortal, but my Tom was once--he was once--I never knew how it could -have been, for a better boy never was. It was some temptation of the -devil, sir, that’s what it was. I saw the boy was miserable, but I -couldn’t get a word out of him--till at last one night I went down on my -knees, and I got hold of him where he was sitting with his head in his -hands, and forced it from him. It was a good bit of money, sir. I’ll not -say but it kept me low a long time: but what was that in comparison with -my Tom’s credit, and his situation, and his whole life? He would have -fled the country next day, if I hadn’t got it out of him that night. -Now, Mr. Sandford, haven’t I a right to speak? Oh, for God’s sake, go -out before you sleep and tell your ma!’ - -‘Mrs. Short, you are a good woman. It’s not what you think. I am not in -debt, nor is it money that troubles me. And my mother knows; I’ve told -her. Thank you for speaking. I’ll go as soon as I have found another set -of rooms, or perhaps I may go abroad. But, anyhow, I’ll clear out within -the week since you wish it.’ - -‘Your mother knows?’ said Mrs. Short, with a tremble in her voice. - -‘Yes--everything,’ said John, with a smile and a sigh. - -‘And about these--men? If so be as she knows--and you’ll promise to see -them no more----’ - -‘I can’t give any promise,’ said John, shaking his head. But he looked -her in the face, in a way, Mrs. Short thought, that those who are -falling into bad company and evil ways never do. He was not afraid to -meet her eye. She shook her head standing over him, feeling that the -problem was one which it was above her power to solve. She said at -last, in a subdued tone: - -‘If you’ve told your ma--she wouldn’t countenance what was wrong. Oh, -Lord, I wish I knew what to do for the best. Mr. Sandford, if it’s -really true that your ma knows, I’ll take back my warning, sir, and -we’ll try again. But oh, you’re young, and you don’t know how quick -things go when you take the wrong road. Oh, Mr. Sandford, though you’ve -had so much of your liberty, you’re very young still!’ - -‘Do you think so?’ said John, with a faint smile. He felt a hundred: -there seemed no spring of youth or hope left in him. Then he said -suddenly, with an almost childlike appeal to human kindness: ‘I’ve had -no food all day. Go and get me something to eat like a kind soul. I’ve -had no dinner or anything.’ - -‘No dinner!’ she said, with an outcry of distress. This seemed something -so dreadful, such a breach of all natural laws, that it swept away every -lesser emotion. And John, too, though he had said this not because he -was hungry, felt a little quiver in his own lip as he realised the -extraordinary fact. He had had no dinner! Such a thing had perhaps -never happened before in his whole life. - -In the evening, when he sat alone with no company but his lamp, having -eaten and refreshed himself (and to his own great wonder he was quite -hungry when food was set before him, though he did not think he could -have tasted a morsel), John heard a soft step pass two or three times -close to his window. The street was very quiet after dark, and there was -so much significance in the persistent re-passing, so close as if the -passer-by meant to look in at the sides of his blind, that his attention -was roused. He looked out cautiously, but saw no one. His heart began to -beat high--who could it be but one person? John recollected suddenly the -soft tread, the cautious, carefully-poised foot, as of one used to -moving about steadily, to wearing shoes such as indoor dwellers wear. It -came over him with a sickening sensation that a tread so soft would be -useful to those who lived by preying upon others: and then a bitter -self-reproach seized him: for the unfortunate who had suddenly become so -interesting to him, was not, he said to himself, after all a common -thief that he should think such horrible injurious things of him. While -he was watching, listening, he heard all at once a ring at the door. The -stealthy visitor had made up his mind at last. John stood waiting, -breathless, in a miserable confusion of feeling, not knowing how he was -to meet with, how he was to speak to the man who was his father, when -the door opened. But it was not May who came in; it was a figure more -unexpected, more startling, the tall dark shadow of a veiled woman, who, -putting back part of the shade from her face as she entered noiselessly, -presented the grave countenance of his mother, disturbed by unusual -excitement to John’s astonished eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -MOTHER AND SON. - - -Mrs. Sandford looked round upon the tidy little sitting-room, but with -eyes of alarm that sought in the curtains and shadows for some -apparition she feared, and not as a woman looks at the dwelling-place of -her child. She had never been here before. Susie had visited him from -time to time with a woman’s interest in his surroundings, but his mother -never. It was all strange to her as if he had been a stranger. She gave -that keen look round which noted nothing except what was its object, -that there was nobody to be seen. - -‘Is he here?’ she said, in a low voice of alarm, without any greeting or -preface. Caresses did not pass between these two either at meeting or -at parting, and there was no time to think even of the conventional -salutation now. - -‘No, he is not here.’ - -She sat down with a sigh of relief, and put back altogether the heavy -gauze veil which had enveloped her head. - -‘Is he coming back? Are you---- Tell them to admit no one, no one! while -I am here.’ - -‘I do not think you need fear; he is not coming back.’ - -She leaned back in her chair with relief. It was the same chair in which -_the other_ had been sitting when John had left the room in the -afternoon. This recollection gave him a curious sensation, as if two -images, which were so antagonistic had met and blended in spite of -themselves. - -‘I don’t know what I said to you this afternoon; I was so taken by -surprise: and yet I was not surprised. I--expected it: only not that it -should have happened to you. It is better,’ she continued, after a -pause, ‘that it should have happened to you.’ - -‘Perhaps,’ said John; ‘I may be better able to bear it--but why did I -have no warning that such a thing could be.’ - -‘Oh, why?’ said she, with a quick breath of impatience--rather as -demanding why he should ask than as allowing the possibility of giving -an explanation. She loosened her long black cloak and put it back from -her shoulders, and thus the shadows seemed to open a little, and the -light to concentrate in her pale, clear face. It is but rarely, perhaps, -that children observe the beauty of their mothers, and never, save when -it is indicated to them by the general voice, or by special admiration. -John had never thought of Mrs. Sandford in this light; but now it -suddenly struck him for the first time that she had been, that she was, -a woman remarkable in appearance, as in character, with features which -she had not transmitted to her children, no common-place, comely type, -but features which seemed meant for lofty emotions, for the tragic and -impassioned. She had not been in circumstances, so far as he had seen -her, to develop these, and her lofty looks had fallen into rigidity, and -the austereness of rule and routine. Sometimes they had melted when she -looked at Susie, but no higher aspect than that of a momentary softening -had ever animated her countenance in his ken. Now it was different. Her -fine nostrils moved, dilating and trembling, with a sensitiveness which -was a revelation to her son; her eyes shone; her mouth, which was so -much more delicate than he had been aware, closed with an impassioned -force, in which, however, there was the same suspicion of a quiver. Her -face was full of sensation, of feeling, of passion. She was not the same -woman as that austere and authoritative one whom he had all this time -known. When he returned from giving the order which she asked, that -nobody should be admitted, he found her leaning back in her chair with -her eyes closed, which seemed to make the rest of her face, which was -all quivering with emotion, even more expressive than before. - -‘I thought that I had not told you enough--that you deserved -explanations, which, painful, most painful as they are, ought to be -given to you now. I suppose I told you very little to-day?’ - -‘Nothing, or next to nothing,’ he replied. - -‘I suppose--I wanted to spare myself,’ she said, with a faint quiver of -a smile. - -‘Mother,’ cried John, ‘I will take it for granted. Why should you make -yourself wretched on my account? And, after all, when the fact is once -allowed, what does it matter? I know all that I need to know--now.’ - -‘Perhaps you are right, John. You know what I would have died to keep -from your knowledge, if it were not folly and nonsense to use such -words. Much, much would be spared in this world if one could purchase -the extinction of it by dying. I know that very well: it is a mere -phrase.’ - -He made no reply, but watched with increasing interest the changes in -her face. - -‘It was thought better you should not know. What good could it have done -you? A father dead is safe; he seems something sacred, whatever he may -have been in reality. _I_ thought, I don’t shrink from the -responsibility, that it was better for you; and my father agreed with -me, John.’ - -‘Grandmother did not,’ he said, quickly; ‘now I know what she meant.’ - -‘Then,’ she said, ‘now that you know, you can judge between us.’ - -She made no appeal to his affection. She was not of that kind. And John -was sufficiently like her to pause, not to utter the words that came to -his lips. He seemed once more to see himself in his boyhood, so full of -ambition and pride and confidence. After awhile he said, - -‘It is much for me to say, but I think I approve. If it is hard upon me -as a man, what would it have been when I was a boy?’ - -‘I am glad,’ she said, ‘that you see it in that light;’ and then she -paused, as if concluding that part of the subject. She resumed again, -after a moment: ‘I took every precaution. We disappeared from the place, -and changed our name. My father and mother changed their home, broke the -thread--I left no clue that I could think of.’ She stopped again and -cleared her throat, and said, with difficulty, ‘Does he think he has any -clue?’ - -John could not make any reply. How his heart veered from side to -side!--sometimes all with her in her pride and passion, sometimes -touched with a sudden softening recollection of the man with his -sophistries, his self-reconciliating philosophy, his good humour, and -his almost childish, ingratiating smile. - -‘I don’t see how he can have found out anything. I have never lost sight -of him--that was easy enough. He has had whatever indulgences, or -alleviations of his lot were permitted. I left money in the chaplain’s -hand for him when the time came for his coming out. I did not trust the -chaplain even with any clue.’ - -The balance came round again as she spoke, and John remembered how, in -this very room, the same story had been told to him from the other side, -and he had himself cried out, indignantly, ‘Could you not find them? Was -there no clue?’ - -He said now, breathlessly, ‘Did you think that right?’ - -‘Right!’ She paused with a little gasp, as if she had been stopped -suddenly in her progress by an unexpected touch. ‘Could there be any -question on the subject?’ - -‘Did Susie think it right?’ - -‘Susie!’ She paused again with impatience. ‘Susie is one of those women -who are all-forgiving, and who have no judgment of right and wrong.’ - -‘And you never hesitated, mother!’ - -‘Never,’ she said, a faint colour like the reflection of a flame passing -over her pale face. ‘Why should I hesitate? Could there be a question? -Alas! Fate has done it instead of me: but could I--I, your mother, bring -such a wrong upon you of my own free will? Don’t you think I would -rather have died--to use that foolish phrase again--I use it to mean the -extremity of wish and effort,--rather than have exposed you to know, -much less to encounter--? Don’t let us speak of it,’ she said, giving -her head a slight nervous shake, as if to shake the thought far from -her. ‘Upon that subject I never had a doubt.’ - -‘And yet he was a man, like other men: and his children at least were -not his judges. Most men who have children have something, somebody to -meet them after years of separation.’ - -‘Did he say that?’ - -‘He did not blame anybody. Knowing nothing about it but that he was a -wretched poor criminal, and that this was his story, I, who was one of -the offenders without knowing, was very indignant.’ - -‘You were very indignant!’ - -‘Yes, mother; I thought it cruel. My heart ached for the man; fourteen -years of privation and loneliness, and not a soul to say “Welcome” when -he came back into the cold world.’ - -‘He had money, which buys friends--the kind of friends he liked.’ - -She had changed her attitude, and sat straight up, her eyes shining, the -lines of her face all moving, rising up enraged and splendid in her own -defence. - -‘It seemed to have gone to his heart--the abandonment--and it went to -mine, merely to hear the story told.’ - -‘I bow,’ she said, ‘to the tenderness of both your hearts! I always felt -there was a certain likeness. I act on other laws:--to bring a convict -back into my family, to shame my young, high-minded, honourable son, -whose path in life promised no difficulty; to shame my gentle child who -has all a woman’s devotion to whoever suffers or seems to suffer; I -don’t speak of myself. For myself, I would die a hundred times (that -phrase again!) rather than be exposed---- No, no, no--nothing, nothing -would have induced me to act otherwise. You don’t know what it is--you -don’t know what _he_ is. Fate, I will not say God, has baffled my plans: -but do not let him come near me, for I cannot bear it. I will rather -leave everything and go away--to the end of the world.’ - -John had in his heart suffered all that a proud and pure-minded young -man can suffer from the thought of what and who his father was: and he -had felt his heart sicken with disgust, turning from him and loathing -him. But when his mother spoke thus a sudden revulsion of feeling arose -in him. He could not hear him so assailed. A sudden partisanship, that -family solidarity which is so curious in its operations, filled his -mind. He felt angry with her that she attacked him, though she said no -more than it had been in his own heart to say. - -He replied, with some indignation in the calmness of his words: - -‘I think you may save yourself trouble on that account. I have not seen -him again. When I came back he was gone. They had not waited for me. -They left no message. I don’t know where to find him.’ - -‘Gone?’ she said. ‘Gone----?’ - -‘Yes, mother. He delivered me from the difficulty, the misery in which I -was coming back, with the intention of saying--what it is so hard to say -to a man who--may be one’s--father.’ John grew pale, and then grew red. -The word was almost impossible to utter, but he brought it forth at -last. ‘But he did not wait for my hesitation or difficulties. He -relieved me. They were gone without leaving a sign.’ - -‘Who do you mean by they?’ - -‘He had a friend,’ John answered, faltering, ‘a friend who is my friend -too. An actor, Montressor.’ - -‘Montressor!’ said Mrs. Sandford, with something like a scream. Then she -covered her eyes suddenly with her hand. ‘Oh, what scenes, what scenes -that name brings back to me! they were friends, as such men call -friendship. They encouraged each other in all kinds of evil. Montressor! -and how came he to be a friend of yours?’ - -‘It is an old story, mother: I daresay you have forgotten. It was -entirely by chance. Susie knows. I will make a confession to you,’ he -said, with a sudden impulse. ‘I was very unhappy, and full of resentment -towards everybody----’ - -‘Towards me,’ she said, quietly, ‘I remember very well. That was the -time when you said I was Emily, and would not have me for your mother.’ - -She smiled at the boyish petulance, as a mother thus outraged has a -right to smile: and perhaps it was natural she should remember it so. -But it was not the moment to remind him. He smiled too, but his smile -was not of an easy kind. - -‘I was altogether wrong,’ he said, ‘I confess it. When I met this man, I -called myself--by the name which seemed to come uppermost in that whirl -of trouble. I said I was John May.’ - -She was silent for a time, not making any reply, her anger not -increased, as he thought it would be: for, indeed, her mind was too full -to be affected by things which at ordinary times would have moved her -much. - -‘And so,’ she said, after a time, ‘that was how he found you out. I will -not call it fate--it seems like God. And yet, for such a childish, small -offence, it was a dreadful penalty. Poor boy! you thought to revenge -yourself a little more on me--and instead you have brought upon your own -head--this----’ - -In the silence that followed--for what could John reply?--there came a -slight intrusion of sound from the house. Some one went out or came in -downstairs, a simple sound, such as in the natural state of affairs -would not even have roused any attention. It awakened all the -smouldering panic in Mrs. Sandford’s face. She started, and caught John -by the arm. - -‘What’s that? What’s that? It is some one coming--he is coming back.’ - -‘No, mother. It is the people below.’ - -‘Where is he?’ she cried, huskily, recovering herself, yet not loosing -John’s arm. ‘Where is he? Where does he live?--not here, don’t say he is -here.’ - -‘I don’t know where he lives. He has never told me, and he left no -message, no address.’ - -‘No address,’ she said. ‘You don’t know where he lives, to stop him, -but he knows where you live, to hold you in his power. I will meet him -in the face when I go out from your door.’ - -The horror in her looks was so great that John tried to soothe her. - -‘There is no reason to fear that. He went away, though I had asked them -to wait. Perhaps he will come no more.’ - -‘Do me one favour, John,’ she cried, grasping his arm closer; ‘do this -one thing for me. Before he can come home again, before he can find you -out, this very night, if you are safe so long, leave this place. Find -somewhere else to live in. Oh! you shall have no trouble. I will find -you a place; but leave this, leave it now at once. Leave him no clue. -What? he has left you none, you say? Why should you hesitate? Come away -with me, John. For the love of God! and if you have learned to feel any -respect or any pity for your mother--for the poor woman whom once you -called Emily---- John, think what it was to me that you should call me -Emily, that you should refuse me the name of mother. And yet you were my -boy, for whom I had denied myself that you might take no harm. Oh, if -you have anything to make up to me for that, do it now. Come away with -me to-night, leave this place, let him find no clue, no clue!’ - -Something of this was said almost in dumb show, her voice giving way in -her passion of entreaty. She had clasped his arm in both her hands as -her excitement grew. Her breath was hot on John’s cheek. There was -something in the clasp of her hands, in the force of her passionate -determination, that made him feel like a child in her hold. - -‘Mother,’ he said, ‘what would be the use? Do you think I could -disappear? If ever that was possible, it isn’t now. Whoever wants to -find me, if not here, will find me at the office, or wherever I may be -working. I can’t sink down through a trap-door into the unknown; that -might be on the stage but not in real life. How could one like me, with -work to do for my living, and employers and people that know me, -disappear?’ - -A remnant, perhaps, of John’s own self-esteem, which had been so -bitterly pulled down by the incidents of this day, awoke again. It was -only the insignificant who could obliterate themselves and leave no -clue. For him to do it was impossible. It was but a melancholy pride, -but it was pride still. - -‘He will not go to the office after you. He knows none of your friends. -If you leave this, and give no address, he will perhaps not seek for -you, for that would be a great deal of trouble. He never liked trouble. -We should gain time at least to think what should be done. John, do what -I ask you! Come away with me to-night. I will manage everything. You -shall have no trouble. John!’ - -‘Mother,’ he cried, taking her hands into his, ‘at the end, when all is -said that can be said, he is our father, Susie’s and mine. We can’t -leave him alone to perish. We can’t forsake him. Mother, now that I know -the truth, I know it, and there is an end. I can’t put it out of my mind -again. I thought my father was dead, but he is not dead, he is alive. It -can never be put out of sight again. It may be bitter enough, terrible -enough, but we can’t put it out of our minds. There it is--he is alive. -He is my business more than anything else. There can be no choice for -Susie and me.’ - -She had been trying to free her hands while he spoke. She wrung them out -of his hold now, thrusting him from her. - -‘I might have known,’ she said, trembling with anger and misery, ‘I -might have known! Susie, too. What does it matter that I have protected -you, saved you, guarded you? I am not your business, I or my -comfort--but he--he---- What will you do with him? where will you take -him? If he comes here, the woman of this house will not bear it long, I -warn you. What will you do, John? Will you take him to your village -among the people you care for? Where will you take him? What will you do -with him, John?’ - -‘My village?’ John said. And there came over him a chill as of death. -His face grew ashy pale, his limbs refused to support him longer; he -sank into the vacant chair, and leaned his head, which swam, on his two -hands, and looked at his mother opposite to him with eyes wild with -sudden dismay and horror: all the day long amid his troubles he had not -thought of that. His village! And must he tell this dreadful story -there? and unfold all the new revelations of failure, betrayal, -disgrace--and of how he had no name, and only shame for an inheritance? -Must he tell it all _there_? - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -SUSIE AND HER LOVERS. - - -Susie had been nearly a month in Edgeley, and a new faculty had -developed in her--a faculty that lies dormant for a life long with many -people, and that is impossible to others--the faculty of living in the -country. She had never known what that was. Not only in town, in the -midst of London, but in the strange, rigid, conventional, -severely-regulated life of the great hospital, she had spent all the -most important years of her life, and thought she knew no other way. Had -she been interrogated on the subject, Susie would have said that the -country might be very good for a change--it was, as everybody knew, the -very place for convalescents; where people ought to be sent to get -well: but for those who were well to start with, oh no! This she would -have said in all good faith, in that serene unacquaintance with what she -rejected, which is the panoply of the simple mind. - -But when she got to the country, almost the first morning Susie woke up -in the quiet, in the clear air, and kind, mild sunshine which beamed out -of the skies like a smile of God, and had no stony pavement to rebound -from and turn into an oven--with a soft rapture such as all her life she -had never known before. She had thought she liked the crowd, the stir, -the perpetual call upon her, and what people called the life, which was -nowhere so vigorous, so intent, so full of change, as in town. But in a -moment she became aware that all this was a mistake, and that it was for -the country she had been born. This had been a delightful revelation to -Susie. And there had followed quickly another revelation, which never is -unimportant in a young woman’s life, but which in her peculiar existence -had been somehow eluded: and this was her own possession of that -feminine power and influence of which books are full, but which Susie -had not seen much of in ordinary life. Sometimes, indeed, there had -happened cases in which a young doctor had somehow been transported -beyond the line of his duties, by some one, perhaps a sister, most -probably a young lady on probation, or one who was playing at nursing, -as some will. And this had been at once wrong, which gave it piquancy as -an incident, and amusing. But such incidents were very rare; people in -the hospital being too busy to think of anything of the kind. Susie had -been, without knowing, the object of one or two dawning enthusiasms of -this description. In one case she had perhaps vaguely suspected the -possibility: but Mrs. Sandford gave neither opportunity nor -encouragement, and the thing had blown over. - -Now, however, it had fully dawned upon her that she herself, tranquil -and simple in early maturity, no longer a girl, as she said to herself, -nor in the age of romance, had come to that moment of sovereignty which -sooner or later falls to most women, notwithstanding all statistics--the -power of actually affecting, disposing of, the life of another. It does -not always turn out to be of profound importance in a man’s life that -he has been refused by a certain woman. But for the time, at least, both -parties feel that it is of great importance: and the result of -acceptance, colouring and determining the course of two lives, cannot be -exaggerated. Susie discovered, first with amusement, afterwards with a -little fright, that the visits of Percy Spencer and of Mr. Cattley were -not without meaning. The two curates, who were so different! Their -position gave them a certain right to come, and her position as a -stranger and a temporary inhabitant exempted her, so far, at least, as -she was aware, from the remarks and criticisms to which another young -woman living alone might have been subject. But Susie had nobody to -interfere, no duenna, not even a well-trained maid to say not at home. -These visitors came in with a little preliminary knock at the parlour -door without asking if it was permitted--without any formality of -announcement. The door of the house was always open, and Sarah in the -kitchen would have thought it strange indeed to be interrupted in her -morning work by anyone ringing at the bell. - -A month is a long time when it is passed in this land of intimacy. -Susie was asked frequently to the rectory, not always with Mrs. -Egerton’s free will--but there are necessities in that way which ladies -in the country cannot ignore: and it was very rarely that a day passed -without a meeting in the village street, if no more--at some cottage -where Susie had made herself useful, but most frequently in her own -little sanctuary, in the parlour so familiar to both these gentlemen, so -much more familiar to them than to her. At first they were continually -meeting there, and their meetings were not pleasant. For Percy did his -best to exasperate Mr. Cattley by a pretended deference to his old age -and antiquated notions, or by the elevation of his own standard of -churchmanship over the mild pretensions of the clergyman who did not -call himself a priest. And Mr. Cattley would retaliate by times with a -middle-aged contempt for boyish enthusiasms, by assuring his young -friend that by-and-by he would see things in a different light. - -After a while, however, they fell into a system, arranging their comings -and goings with a mutual and jealous care in order that they might not -meet. And they both gave Susie a great deal of information about -themselves. She sat, and smiled, and listened, not without a subdued -pleasure in that power which she had discovered later than usual, and -which even this mutual antagonism made more flattering. Percy was full -of schemes in which he demanded her interest. - -‘Everything has gone on here in the old-fashioned way,’ he said, ‘in the -famous old let-alone way. Aunt Mary has pottered about: she is the only -one that has done anything. My father never had any energy. He would -have let anyone take the reins out of his hands. And she has done it; -and she has always had old Cattley under her thumb. He has not dared to -say his soul was his own. To see him sit and stare and worship her used -to be our fun when we were boys. Jack must have told you.’ - -‘No, never. John saw nothing that was not perfect. He worshipped all of -you, I think.’ - -‘Some of us too much, perhaps--not me, I am certain,’ said Percy. ‘But -old Cattley was the greatest joke, Miss Sandford. How you would have -laughed!’ (Susie, however, did not laugh at all at this suggestion, but -sat as grave as a judge, with her eyes bent on her sewing.) ‘But nothing -could have been more unecclesiastical,’ Percy continued, recovering his -gravity. ‘It was the first thing I had to do in getting the parish into -my hands. Aunt Mary had to be put down.’ - -‘Has she been put down?’ said Susie, laughing a little in her turn. - -‘I flatter myself, completely,’ said the young man. ‘She has learned to -keep her own place, which is everything. My father gives no trouble; he -sees how things have been neglected, and he is quite willing that I -should have it all in my own hands. I hope, especially if I have your -help, Miss Sandford, to have the cottage hospital and all the -improvements of which we have talked carried out. If I might hope that -you would set it going----’ - -‘But would not that be like your aunt’s interference over again, with no -right at all,’ Susie said. - -‘No one can have any right--save what is given them by the clergy. And -you are not my aunt--very different! How I should love to delegate as -much as is fit of my authority to you!’ He paused a moment, with a sigh -and tender look, at which Susie secretly laughed, but outwardly took no -notice. Then he added: ‘Aunt Mary would have no delegation. She -interferes as if she thought she had a right to do it--a pretension not -tenable for a moment. But to entrust the woman’s part--to find an -Ancilla Domini, dear Miss Sandford, in you!’ - -Mr. Cattley was not so lively as this. He would sit for a long time by -the little work-table which had belonged to old Mrs. Sandford, and say -very little. He would sometimes relate to Susie something about her -grandparents, and talk of the pretty old lady with her white hands. - -‘They were here when I first came,’ he would say. ‘I was a little lonely -when I came. I was one of the youngest of an immense family. My people -were glad to get rid of us, I think, especially the young ones, who were -of no great account. And my mother was dead. Edgeley was very pleasant -to me. I was taken up at the rectory as if I had been a son of the -house. And nobody can tell what she--what they all--were to me.’ - -Mr. Cattley coughed a little over the _she_, to make it look as if it -were a mistake, changing it into _they_. - -‘Mrs. Egerton,’ said Susie, with a directness which brought a little -colour to the old curate’s cheek, ‘must have been very pretty then.’ - -‘To me she is beautiful now,’ he said, fervently, ‘and always will be. I -am not of the opinion that age has anything to do with beauty. It -becomes a different kind. It is not a girl’s or a young woman’s beauty -any longer, but it is just as beautiful. You will forgive me, Miss -Sandford----’ - -‘I have nothing to forgive,’ said Susie, but she said it with a little -heat. ‘I like people to be faithful,’ she added, perhaps indiscreetly. - -Mr. Cattley did not answer for some time. And then he said: - -‘I am going away now, and another life is beginning. I have been rather -a dreamer all my life, but I must be so no longer. I begin to feel the -difference. I think, if you will not be offended, that it is partly you -who have taught me----’ - -‘I!’ cried Susie, with something like fright. ‘I don’t know how that -could be----’ - -‘Nor I either,’ he said, with a smile which Susie felt to be very -ingratiating. ‘You have not intended it, nor thought of it, but still -you have done it. There is something that is so real in you, if I may -say so--a sweet, practical truth that makes other people think.’ - -‘You mean,’ said Susie, with a blush, ‘that I am very matter-of-fact?’ - -‘No, I don’t mean that. I suppose what I mean is, that I have been going -on in a kind of a dream, and you are so living that I feel the contrast. -You must not ask me to explain. I’m not good at explaining. But I know -what I mean. I wish you knew Overton, Miss Sandford.’ - -‘Yes,’ said Susie, simply, ‘I should like to know it--when do you go?’ - -He smiled vaguely. - -‘That is what I can’t tell,’ he said. ‘I should be there now. When do -_you_ go, Miss Sandford?’ - -‘I don’t know that either,’ she said, with a blush of which she was -greatly ashamed. ‘I suppose I ought to go now: but the country life is -pleasant, far more than I could have thought, after living so long in -town.’ - -‘You have always lived in town?’ - -‘As long as I can remember,’ said Susie. - -‘That is perhaps what makes one feel that you are living through and -through. It must quicken the blood. Now I,’ said Mr. Cattley, ‘am a -clodhopper born. I love everything that belongs to the country, and -nothing of the town--except----’ he said, and laughed and looked at her -with pleasant, mild, admiring eyes. - -‘You must make an exception,’ said Susie, ‘or you will seem to say that -you dislike me.’ - -He shook his head at that with a smile--as if anything so much out of -the question could be imagined by no one. It was all very simple, -tranquil, and sweet, nothing that was impassioned in it, perhaps a -little too much of the middle-aged composure and calm. But Susie liked -the implied trust, the gentle entire admiration and appreciation. It -might not be romantic, perhaps, but she had a feeling that she might go -to Overton or anywhere putting her hand in that of this mild man. If -there was a little prick of feeling in respect to Mrs. Egerton, who had -been so long the object of his devotion, that was soothed by the natural -triumphant confidence of youth in its own unspeakable superiority over -everyone who was old: and to Susie at twenty-six (though that, she was -willing to allow, was not very young) a woman of forty-eight was a -feminine Methusaleh, and certainly not to be feared. - -Nothing more had been said; and these two were tranquilly sitting -together; she at her work, he close to her little table, in a pleasant -silence which might have been that of the profoundest calm friendship, -or the most tranquil domestic love. And it might have ended in nothing -more than was then visible--a great mutual confidence and esteem: or it -might end at any moment in the few words which would suffice to unite -these two lives into one for all their mortal duration. But as they sat -there silently, in that intense calm fellowship, the ears of both were -caught by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching, so quick, so -precipitate, that it was not possible to dissociate them from the idea -of calamity. - -Mr. Cattley lifted his head and looked towards the door; Susie -involuntarily put down her work. She thought of an accident, in the -semi-professional habit of her thoughts, and her mind leaped naturally -into the question where she could find bandages and the other -appliances? while he, whose duty took another turn, instinctively felt -in his breast-pocket for the old well-worn Prayer-book, from which he -was never separated. Then there was a clang of the open door, pushed -against the wall by some one entering eagerly. And the next moment the -parlour door burst open, and Elly appeared--Elly with her eyes very wide -open and shining, her mouth set firm, a wind of vigorous and rapid -movement coming in with her, disturbing the papers on the table. The -curate jumped up in alarm, with a cry: ‘Elly, what is the matter?’ and a -changing colour. Susie thought the same as he did--that something must -have happened at the rectory, and rose up, but not with the same -eagerness as he. - -‘Oh, you are here, Mr. Cattley,’ said Elly, with an impatient wave of -her hand. She was breathless, scarcely able to get out the words, which -ran off in a sort of sibilation at the end. Then she sat down hastily, -and paused to take breath. ‘It was Susie,’ she went on, with a gasp, -‘that I wanted to see.’ - -‘I will go away,’ said the curate, ‘but tell me first that nothing is -wrong--that nothing has happened.’ - -Elly took a minute or two to recover her breath, which she drew in long -inspirations, relieving her heart. - -‘Since you are here,’ she said, ‘you may stay, for you have known -everything. Nothing wrong? Oh, everything is wrong. But nothing has -happened to Aunt Mary, if that is what you mean.’ - -Mr. Cattley grew very red, and cast a glance at Susie, who on her part -sat down quickly, silently, without asking any question, which had its -significance. Perhaps she only felt that, as there was evidently no need -for bandages she could not have much to do with it, either; perhaps--but -it is unnecessary to investigate further. For Elly added, immediately, - -‘I have got a letter from Jack, which I don’t understand at all.’ - -She had recovered her breath. There was an air of defiance and -resolution upon her face. She drew her chair into the open space in -front of Susie, and challenged her as if to single combat. - -‘I want to know,’ she said, ‘from you--I don’t mind Mr. Cattley being -there, because he knows us both so well, and has been in it all along. I -want to know, from you--is there any reason, any secret reason, that he -could find out and did not know before, that could stand between Jack -and me?’ - -Susie looked at her with an astonished face, her mouth a little open, -her eyes fixed in wonder. She did not make any reply, but that was -comprehensible, for the question seemed to take her altogether by -surprise. - -‘I don’t think you understand me,’ said Elly, plaintively, ‘and I’m sure -I don’t wonder. _You_ know, Mr. Cattley, at least; Jack went away full -of his great scheme which was to make him rich, which was to make Aunt -Mary’s opposition as much contrary to prudence as it was to--to good -sense and--everything,’ cried Elly, ‘for of course the only drawback in -it, as everybody must have seen with half an eye, was that I was not -good enough for him, a rising engineer, with the finest profession in -the world! However, we were engaged all the same. People might say not, -but we were--in every sense of the word--I to him and he to me!’ - -Her face was like the sky as she told her tale, now swept by clouds, now -clearing into full and open light. She grew red and pale, and dark and -bright in a continued succession, and kept her eyes fixed with mingled -defiance and appeal on Susie’s face. - -‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘for you must know--is there anything that Jack -could find out that would change all that in a moment? What is there -that he could find out that would make him think differently of himself -and of every creature? Can’t you tell me, Susie? You are his only -sister; you must know, if anyone knows. What is it? What is it? Mr. -Cattley, her face is changing too. Oh, for goodness sake, make her tell -me! If I only knew, I could judge for myself. Make her say what it is!’ - -The clouds that came and went on Elly’s face seemed suddenly to have -blown upon that wind of emotion to Susie’s. After her first look of -wonder, she had given the questioner a quick suspicious troubled glance. -Then Susie picked up her work again and bent her head over it, and -appeared to withdraw her attention altogether. She went on working in an -agitated way a minute or two after this appeal had been made to her. -Then she suddenly raised her head. - -‘What could he have found out? How should I know what he could find out? -What was there to find out?’ - -‘These are the questions I am asking you,’ cried Elly. ‘Here is his -letter. I brought it to show you. It is a letter,’ cried the girl, -‘which anybody may see, not what anyone could call a love-letter. I -suppose he has found out, after having spoken, that he did not--care for -me as he thought.’ - -‘Elly,’ said the curate, ‘I know nothing about it--but I am sure _that_ -is not true.’ - -‘Oh, you should see the letter,’ she cried, with a faint laugh. The -clouds with a crimson tinge had wrapped her face in gloom and shame. -Then she paused and put her hands to her eyes to hide the quick-coming -tears. ‘Why should one be ashamed?’ she said. ‘I was not ashamed -before. It was I who insisted before; for I was quite sure--quite -sure---- And now what am I to think? for he has given me up, Susie, he -has given me up!’ - -Susie kept her head bent over her work. - -‘Because,’ she said, ‘of something he has found out?’ - -‘Because of--yes--yes. Read it, if you like--anyone may read it. Because -he thought his father was dead and he finds out now that he is alive; -but what is his father to me? No father can make a slave of Jack, for he -is a man. What have I do with his father, Susie?’ - -Susie’s work served her no longer as a shield. It dropped from her -hands: she was very pale, everything swam before her eyes. - -‘Oh, what is it--what is it--_what is it_?’ cried Elly, clapping her -hands together with a frenzy of eagerness and anxiety and curiosity, -which resounded through the silence of the house. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -JOHN’S LETTER. - - -The letter which had been received that morning, and had thrown the -rectory into the deepest dismay ran thus: - - ‘DEAREST ELLY, - - ‘After all that we have said and hoped, I am obliged to come to a - pause. What I have to tell you had better be said in a very few - words. I have always believed that my father was dead, that he died - when I was a child. I have suddenly found that he is alive. His - existence makes an end at once of all the hopes that were as my - life. I must give you up, first of all, because you are more - precious than everything else. Whatever may happen to me; whatever - I do; whether I succeed, as is very little likely, or fail, which - is almost sure now, I never can have any standing-ground on which - to claim you. I must give you up. This revolution in my life has - been very sudden, and I dare not delay telling you of it--for - nothing can ever bridge over the chasm thus made. I will explain - why this is, if you wish it, or if anyone wishes it: but I would - rather not do it, for it is very, very painful. All is pain and - misery--I think there is nothing else left in the world. Elly, I - daren’t say a word to you to rouse your pity. I ought not to try to - make you sorry for me. I ought to do nothing more than say God - bless you. I never was worthy to stand beside you, to entertain - such a wild dream as that you might be mine. I can never forget, - but I hope that you may forget, all except our childhood, which - cannot harm. - - ‘J. M. S.’ - - - -‘Now what,’ said Elly, facing them both defiantly, ‘what does that -mean?’ - -Susie had read it too, at last, though at first she had refused to read -it. Did she not know in a moment what it meant? For her there could be -no doubt. Since she had grown a woman; since she had learned how things -go in this world, and how difficult it is to conceal anything, there had -always been a dread in Susie’s mind of what would happen when John found -out. This had only come over her by moments, but now, in the shock of -the discovery, she believed that she had always thought so, and always -trembled for this contingency. She said to herself now that she had -always known it would happen, which was going further still--always -known--always dreaded--and now it had come. She did not need to read the -letter, but she had done so at last, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. -She gave it back to Elly without a word. Of course she had known what it -must be. Of course, from the first moment, she had known. - -‘Susie,’ Elly said again, ‘tell me, what does it mean?’ - -‘You know him well enough,’ Susie said, falteringly; ‘you know he would -not say what was not true.’ - -‘But if this is true,’ said Elly, ‘then he has said before what was not -true. What can it be to me that his father is living? I do not -mind--his father is nothing to me. I don’t want to hurt you, Susie, but -if his father swept the streets, if he--oh, I don’t want to hurt you!’ - -‘You don’t hurt me,’ said Susie, with the smile of a martyr. ‘Oh, Miss -Spencer, let us leave it alone. You see what he says. He will explain, -if you insist, but he would rather not explain. Don’t you trust him -enough for that?’ - -‘Trust him!’ said Elly. ‘I trust him so much that, if he sent me word to -go to him and marry him to-morrow, I would do it. I trust him so that I -don’t believe it, oh, not a word,’ the girl cried. And then she threw -herself upon Susie, clasping her wrists as she tried, trembling, to -resume her work. ‘Oh, tell me, what does he mean--what does he mean? -What can his father be to me?’ - -‘Elly,’ said Mr. Cattley, ‘don’t you see how hard you are upon her? Take -what Jack says, or let him explain for himself. I will go to him and get -his explanation, if you wish--but why torture _her_?’ - -Elly shot a vivid glance from the curate to Susie, who sat with her head -bent over her work, her needle stumbling wildly in her trembling hands. - -‘You think a great deal of sparing her, Mr. Cattley. Aunt Mary says----’ - -Elly was in so great distress, so excited, so crossed and thwarted, so -uncertain and unhappy, that to wound some one else was almost a relief -to her. But she stopped short before she shot her dart. - -‘I am sure she says nothing that is unkind,’ said the curate, firmly; -but his very firmness betrayed the sense of a doubt. Mrs. Egerton had -been his idol all this time, and was he going to desert her? Could she -by any possibility think that he was deserting her? His own mind was too -much confused and troubled on his own account to be clear. - -Susie kept on working as if for life and death, not meeting the girl’s -look, tacitly resisting the clasp of her hands, grateful when Mr. -Cattley distracted Elly’s attention and relieved herself from that -urgent appeal, yet scarcely conscious whence the relief came or what -they were saying to each other to make that pause. Her needle flew along -wildly all the time, piercing her fingers more often than the two edges -which she was sewing together: and in her mind such a tumult and -conflict, half physical from the flutter of her heart beating in her -ears, making a whirr of sound through which the voices came vaguely, -carrying no meaning. Elly’s appeal to her, though so urgent, was but -secondary. The thing that had happened, and all the questions involved -in it: how he had come to light again, that poor father whom Susie had -been brought up to fear, yet whom she could not help loving in a way; -how John had found out the family tragedy; what it would be to her -mother to be brought face to face with it again, and to know that _he_ -knew it, whom it had been the object of her life to keep in ignorance. -To think that all this had happened, and nobody had told her; that she -had not known a word of it till now, when that intimation was -accompanied by this impassioned appeal for explanation. Explanation! how -could Susie explain? The very suggestion that another mode of treatment -was possible from that which her mother had adopted, and that, instead -of concealing it at any risk, John was setting it up between him and -those he loved most, identifying himself with it, even offering -explanation if necessary, was appalling to Susie. - -It was only when she had a moment of silence to consider, that it all -came upon her. She did not know what they were saying, or desire to -hear. She felt by instinct that some other subject had been momentarily -introduced, and was grateful for the moment’s relief to think. But how -could she think in the shock of this unexpected revelation, and with all -that noise and singing in her ears? She came to herself a little when -the voices ceased, and she became aware that they were looking at her, -and wondering why she did not say anything--which was giving up her own -cause as much as if she confirmed the truth. She looked up with eyes -that were dim and dazed, but tried to smile. - -‘I cannot tell you what John means,’ she said; ‘how could I, when I -don’t know what he means? He has--very high notions: and he -thinks--nothing good enough for you. We have no--pretensions--as a -family.’ - -Susie tried very hard to smile and look as if John were only very -scrupulous, humble-minded, feeling himself not Elly’s equal in point of -birth. - -‘We’ve gone over all that,’ cried Elly, with an impatient wave of her -hand. ‘And what does it matter--to anybody, now-a-days? It is all -exploded; it is all antiquated. Nobody thinks of such a thing now. And -Jack knows well enough. Besides, it is ridiculous,’ cried the girl; ‘he -is--well, if you must have it, he is conceited, he is proud of himself, -he is no more humble about it than if he were a king. Do you think I’m a -fool not to know his faults? I’ve known them all my life. I like his -faults!’ Elly said. - -And then there was again a pause. Nobody spoke. It became very apparent -to both these anxious questioners--to Elly, when the fumes of her own -eager speech died away, and to Mr. Cattley, who was calmer--that Susie -did not wish to make any reply, that she knew something of which this -was the natural consequence, something which she was determined not to -tell, something which was serious enough to justify John’s letter, which -showed that it was no fantastic notion on his part, but a reality. -Susie herself was dimly aware, even though she had her eyes on her work -as before, that they were looking at her with keen examination, and also -in her mind that they were coming to this inevitable conclusion: but -what could she do? - -‘Every family,’ she said, faltering, ‘has its little secrets, or at -least something it keeps to itself. I don’t know that there is more with -us than with other people----’ But her voice would not keep steady. -‘The only thing,’ she went on, sharply, feeling a resource in a little -anger, ‘is that people generally--keep these things to themselves;--but -John, it seems that John----’ And here she came to a dead stop and said -no more. - -Elly had grown graver and graver while Susie spoke. Her excitement and -impatience to know, fell still, as a lively breeze will sometimes do in -a moment. Her eyes, which Susie could not meet, seemed to read the very -outline of the drooping figure, the bent head, the nervous stumbling -hands so busy with work which they were incapable of doing. Elly’s face -settled into something very serious. She flung her head back with the -air of one taking a definite resolution. - -‘In that case,’ she said, lingering a little over the words in case they -might call forth an answer, ‘in that case, I think I had better go.’ - -Mr. Cattley, much perplexed, went with her to the door. He went up the -street with her, his face very grave too, almost solemn. - -‘Don’t do anything rash, Elly,’ he said. ‘We know Jack. I--I can’t think -he is to blame.’ - -‘To blame!’ Elly said, with her head high, as if the suggestion were an -insult. Then she added, after a moment, ‘Yes, he’s to blame, as -everybody is that makes a mystery. Whatever it is, he might have known -that he could trust me; that is the only way in which he can be to -blame.’ - -Susie had thrown away her work in the ease of being alone. It was an -ease to her, and the only solace possible. She put her arms on the table -and her face upon them, and found the relief which women get in tears. -It is but a poor relief; yet it gives a sort of refreshment. Her burning -and scorched eyelids were softened--and the sense of scrutiny removed, -and freedom to look and cry as she would, was good. But the thronging -thoughts that had been kept in check by that need of keeping a steady -front to the world, which is at once an appalling necessity and a -support to women, came now with a wilder rush and took possession -altogether of her being. How was it that he had appeared again, that -spectre whom she had feared since she was a child, yet for whom by -moments nature had cried out in her heart, Papa! She, like John, only -knew the child’s name for him, only remembered him as smiling and kind; -though she had learned, as John never had learned, that other aspect of -him which appeared through her mother’s eyes. Susie knew something, -embittered by the feeling of the woman who had gone through it all, of -the long and hopeless struggle that had filled all her own childhood, -and of which she had been vaguely conscious--the struggle between a -woman of severe virtue, and an uprightness almost rigid, and a man who -had no moral fibre, yet so many engaging qualities, so much good humour, -ease of mind, and power of adapting himself, that most people liked -him, though no one approved of him: the kind of father whom little -children adore, but whom his sons and daughters, as they grow up, -sometimes get to loathe in his incapacity for anything serious, for any -self-restraint or self-respect. - -His wife had been the last woman in the world to strive with such a -nature, and perhaps the horror that had grown in her, and which she had -instilled unconsciously into Susie’s mind, was embittered by this -knowledge. Susie knew all the terrible story. How the woman had toiled -to keep him right, to convince him of the necessity of keeping right, to -persuade him that there was a difference between right and wrong: and -she knew that this always hopeless struggle had ended in the misery and -horror of the shame which her proud mother had to bear, yet would not -bear. All this came back to her as she lay with her head bowed upon her -arms in the abandonment of a misery which no stranger’s eye could spy -upon. And he had come back? and how was mother to bear it? And how had -John found it out? And why did he not hide in his own heart, as they -had done, this dreadful, miserable secret? She, a girl, had known it and -kept it a secret, even from her own thoughts, for fourteen years. Day -and night she had prayed for the unfortunate in prison, but never by -look or word betrayed the thing which had changed her life at twelve -years old, and sundered her from others of her age, more or less -completely ever since. It had separated her so completely that till now -Susie had never lived in entirely natural easy relations with other -girls, or with men of her own age. There had always been a great gulf -fixed between her and youthful friendship, between her and love. This -had been somehow bridged over here in this innocent place--and now! Oh, -how would mother bear it? Oh, how had John found it out? - -She was in the midst of these confused yet too distinct and certain -trains of recollections and questions, when her solitude and ease of -self-abandonment were suddenly disturbed. She had not heard any step, -any token of another’s presence until she suddenly felt a light touch -upon her bowed head, and on her arm. Susie had given herself up too -completely to her own thoughts to be capable of considering the plight -in which she was. She started and looked up, her face all wet with her -weeping. She thought, she knew not what--that it was he perhaps, the -terror of the family, though she remembered nothing of him but kindness; -or John, it might be John, come to fetch her, to claim her help in these -renewed and overwhelming troubles. She started up in haste, raising to -the new-comer her tell-tale face. But it was not John, nor her father. -It was Mr. Cattley who was standing close by her with his hand touching -her arm. He had touched her head before, as she lay bowed down and -overwhelmed. His eyes were fixed upon her, waiting till she should look -at him, full of pity and tenderness. - -‘Oh, Mr. Cattley!’ she cried, in the extremity of her surprise. He only -replied by patting softly the arm on which his hand lay. - -‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is wrong. Tell me what is wrong. The secret, -if it is a secret, will be safe with me: but you cannot bear this -pressure; you must have some relief to your mind. Susie--I will call -you what Elly calls you for once--do you know what I was going to say to -you when she came?’ - -Susie raised her tear-stained face to his with a little surprise, and -said no. - -‘So much the worse for my chances,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘You -might have divined, perhaps; yet why should you? I was going to tell you -a great many things I will not say now--to explain----’ Something like -a blush came upon his middle-aged countenance. ‘This is not the time for -that. I was going to ask you if you would marry me. There: that is all. -You see by this that I am ready to keep all your secrets, and help you -and serve you every way I can. It is only for this reason that I tell -you now. Will you take the good of me, Susie, without troubling yourself -with the thought of anything I may ask in return? There, now! Poor -child, you are worn out. Tell me what it is.’ - -‘Oh, Mr. Cattley,’ she cried, and could say no more. - -‘Never mind Mr. Cattley: tell me what troubles you--that is the first -thing to think of. I guess as much as that it is something which poor -Jack has found out, but which you knew. I will go further, and tell you -what I guessed long ago--that this poor father has done something in -which there was trouble and shame.’ - -He had seated himself by her and taken her hand, holding it firmly -between his, and looking into her face. Susie felt, as many have felt -before her, that here all at once was a stranger to whom she could say -what she could not have said to the most familiar friend. - -‘We hoped,’ she said, in a low voice--‘we thought--that nobody knew.’ - -‘Not John?’ - -‘Oh, John last of all; that was why he lived here; that was why we left -him, mother and I, and never came, and let him think that he was nothing -to us. He thought we had no love for him. He said to mother once that -she was not his mother. Ah!’ cried Susie, with a low cry of pain at that -recollection, ‘all that he might never know.’ - -‘And now he has found out: how do you think he can have found out?’ - -Susie shook her head. - -‘The time was up; we knew that, and we were frightened, mother and I, -though there seemed no reason for fear, for we had left no sign to find -us by. Oh, I am afraid--I was always afraid--that to do that was unkind. -He was papa after all; he had a right to know, at least; but mother -could not forget all the dangers, all that she had gone through.’ - -‘I suppose, then,’ said Mr. Cattley, with a little pressure of her hand, -‘his name was not your name?’ - -Susie looked at him with something like terror. Her voice sank to the -lowest audible tone. - -‘His name--our real name--is May.’ - -The curate had great command of himself, and was on his guard; -nevertheless she felt a thrill in the hand that held hers: Susie -sensitive, and prepared to suffer, as are the unfortunate, attempted to -draw hers away--but he held it fast; and when he spoke, which was not -for a minute, he said, with a movement of his head, - -‘I think I remember now.’ - -The grave look, the assenting nod, the tone were all too much for her -excited nerves. She drew her hand out of his violently. - -‘Then if you remember,’ cried Susie, ‘you know that it was disgrace no -one could shake off. You know it was shame to bow us to the dust; that -we never could hold up our heads, nor take our place with honest people, -nor be friends, nor love, nor marry, with such a weight upon us as that; -and now you know why John, poor John, oh, poor John!’ - -She hurried away from the table where the curate sat, regarding her with -that compassionate look, and threw herself into her grandfather’s chair -which stood dutifully by the side of the blank fireplace where Elly and -John had placed it. Her simple open countenance, which had hid that -secret beneath all the natural candour and truth of a character which -was serene as the day, was flushed with trouble and misery. Life seemed -to have revealed its sweeter mysteries to Susie only to show her how far -apart she must keep herself from honest people, as she said. And her -heart cried out--almost for the first time on its own account. Her -thoughts had chimed in with her mother’s miseries, but had not felt -them, save sympathetically; now her own time had come--and -John’s--John’s, who knew nothing, who must have discovered everything at -one stroke; he who was not humble, nor diffident, but so certain of -himself and all that he could do. What did it matter for anybody in -comparison with John? - -Mr. Cattley did not disturb her for some time. He let that passion wear -itself out. Then he went and stood with his back to the fireplace, as -Englishmen use, though it was empty. - -‘And now,’ he said, ‘that we understand, let us lay our heads together -and think what can be done.’ - -‘There is nothing to be done,’ said Susie. ‘Oh, Mr. Cattley, go away, -don’t pity me. I can’t bear it. There is only one thing for me to do, -and that is to go home to mother and John.’ - -‘I do not pity you,’ he said, ‘far from that. You have got the same work -as the angels have. Why should I pity you? It hurts them too, perhaps, -if they are as fair spirits as we think. But I am going with you, Susie: -for two, even when the second is not good for much, are better than -one.’ - -She clasped her hands and looked up at him with a gaze of entreaty. - -‘Don’t,’ she cried, ‘don’t mix yourself up with us! Oh, go away to the -people who are fond of you, to the people who are your equals. What has -a clergyman to do with a man who has been in prison? Oh, never mind me, -Mr. Cattley. I am going to my own belongings. We must all put up with it -together the best way we can.’ - -‘Susie,’ he said, softly, ‘you are losing time. Don’t you know there is -an evening train?’ - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -THE DARKNESS THAT COULD BE FELT. - - -John rose late next morning to a changed world. It no longer seemed to -be of any importance what he did. For the first time in his life he got -up in the forenoon and breakfasted as late as if he had been a -fashionable young man with nothing to do. He was not fashionable indeed, -but there was no longer any occupation that claimed him. He had nothing -to do. He flung himself on his sofa, after the breakfast, which he had -no heart to touch, had been taken away. What did it matter what he did -now? He had not slept till morning. He was fagged and jaded, as if he -had been travelling all night. Travelling all night! that was nothing, -not worth a thought. How often had he stepped out of a train, and, -after his bath and his breakfast, rushed off to the office with his -report of what he had been doing, as fresh as if he had passed the night -in the most comfortable of beds! that was nothing. Very, very different -was it to lie all night tossing, with a fever swarm of intolerable -thoughts going through and through your head, and to rise up to feel -yourself without employment or vocation, to see the world indifferently -swinging on without you, when you yourself perhaps had thought that some -one train of things, at least, would come to a dead stand without you. -But there was no stoppage visible anywhere. It was he who had stopped -like a watch that has run down, but everything else went on as before. - -He had written his letter to Elly on the previous night. Thus everything -was crammed into one day--his bad reception at the office, his discovery -of the man who had thus injured him, who had injured him so much more -sorely by the mere fact of existing; and the conclusion of his early -romance and love-dream. He had not sent the letter yet. He had kept it -open to read it in the morning, to see whether anything should be added -or taken away. So many words rose to his lips which appealed -involuntarily to Elly’s love, to her sympathy--and he did not want to do -that. He wanted to be quite imperative about it, as a thing on which -there could be no second word to say. Elly could not call a convict -father. She must never even know of the man who was John’s destroyer, -though he was at the same time John’s father. He shuddered at the words, -notwithstanding that a great melting and softening was in his heart -towards the strange, loosely-knitted intelligence which seemed to drift -through everything--life, and morality, and natural affection--without -feeling any one influence stronger than the other, or any moral -necessity, either logical or practical. To be brought thus in all the -absolutism of youth, and in all the rigid rightness of young -respectability, face to face with a man to whom nothing was absolute, -and the most fundamental principles were matters of argument and -opinion, gave such a shock to John’s being as it is impossible to -estimate. It seemed to cut him adrift from everything that kept him to -his place. Had the discovery been uncomplicated by anything at the -office, John might have felt it differently. It would, in any way, have -taken the heart out of him, but it would not, perhaps, have interfered -with his work. But now everything was gone. - -He flung himself down on the sofa, and lay like a man dead or disabled; -like a man, he said to himself, who had been drunk overnight, who had -come out of dissipation and vice with eyes that sickened at the light of -day. And this was John Sandford, who never in his life before, having -unbroken health and an energetic disposition and boundless determination -to get on, had spent a morning in this way. He almost believed, as he -threw himself down on the sofa and turned his eyes from the light, that -he actually had been drunk (using the coarsest word, as if it had been -of one of the navvies he was thinking) overnight. - -And yet his heart was soft to the cause of it all. A feeling which had -never been awakened in him, even when she was most kind, by his mother, -which seemed out of the question so far as she was concerned, stole in -with a softening influence indescribable, along with the image of that -disgraced and degraded man, insensible as he seemed to his own disgrace. -That easy smile of cheerful vagabondage was the only thing that threw a -little light upon the unbroken gloom. It had amused John in the vagrant -soul which he had taken under his wing; it was awful and intolerable to -him in his father: yet unconsciously it shed a sort of faint light upon -the future, from which all guidance seemed removed. What was he to do in -that changed and terrible future, that new world in which there was no -longer any one of all the hopes that had cheered him? Elly was gone, as -far as the poles apart from him and his ways, and so were his ambitions, -his schemes. There remained to him in all the world nothing but his -mother and sister, who had deceived him, and whom he could now serve -best by going away out of their ken for ever: and this poor criminal, -abandoned by all--the convict who had no friend but Joe, who had wronged -and cheated John, and brought him to the dust, but who yet was the only -living creature that belonged to him and had need of him now. - -He was roused from his first languor of despair (though that was a -condition which could not have lasted long in any circumstances) by the -entrance of the little maid to lay the table for another meal. Another -meal! Was this henceforward to be the only way in which his days should -be measured? But no, he said to himself, jumping up with a sort of fury -from his sofa, that could not be, for there would soon be nothing to get -the meals with in that case: at which thought he laughed to himself. -Laughing or crying what did it matter, the one was as horrible as the -other. - -‘Missis said as she thought perhaps you would be wishing your dinner at -’ome to-day,’ said the maid, startled by his laugh. - -‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said John; but, when the food came with its -savoury smell, he found out, poor fellow, that he was hungry, very -hungry, having eaten nothing for--he did not recollect how long, weeks -it seemed to him, since that peaceful breakfast before anything had gone -wrong. At twenty-one a young man’s appetite cannot be quenched by -anything that may happen. He ate, he felt enormously, eagerly, and -afterwards he was a little better. When that was over he drew himself -together, and his thoughts began to shape themselves into a more -definite form. - -In his profession, young as he was, he had already seen something of -emigration, and had contemplated it more familiarly than is usually the -case. He had been in America. He knew a little of the works that were -going on in various distant regions, and he had that confidence which -belongs to a skilled workman in every class, that he must find -employment wherever he went. Anyhow, wherever he might decide to go, the -world would be a different world for him. He would be cut off from -everything with which he was acquainted or which was dear to him, as -much in London as at the Antipodes. Therefore, the wiser thing was to go -to the Antipodes, and make life outside at once as strange as the life -within. - -It would, perhaps, ease the horrible annihilation of every hope if -everything external were changed, and he could imagine that it was -Australia or New Zealand, and not some awful fate that had done it. And -now henceforth he would have one companion--one poor companion from -whom he could never cut himself free--his father! who would have to -stand to him in place of a family, in place of Elly, over whom he would -have to watch, whom he must never suffer to steal from his side, whom -perhaps he might guide into some little tranquil haven, some corner of -subdued and self-denying life where he might wear out in safety. But, -alas! John recoiled with a thrill of natural horror, first at the -circumstances, then at himself, for building upon that. His father was -not old as fathers ought to be. He was not more than fifty, and, though -this is old age to persons of twenty-one, the young man could not so far -deceive himself as to see any signs of failing strength or life drawing -towards its close in the man whom the austerity of prison life had -preserved and purified, and whose eye danced with youthful elasticity -still. He was not like an old father of seventy or eighty, the -conventional father whom fiction allots to heroes and heroines, and who -is likely to die satisfactorily at the end, at least, of a few years’ -tenderness. No. May would live, it might be, as long as his son. This -was an element of despair which it was impossible to strive against, -and equally impossible to confess; even to his own heart John would not -confess it. It lay heavily in the depths of that heart, a profound -burden, like a stone at the bottom of a well. - -‘Yes,’ he said to himself, with a little forlorn attempt to rouse up and -cheer himself on, ‘to the Antipodes!’ where perhaps there might be -something to do, of as much importance, or more, than draining the -Thames Valley: where the primitive steps of civilisation had yet to be -made, and he might be of use at least to somebody. That was one thing to -the good at least, to have decided so much as that. And then he seized -his hat and went out. There was still one preliminary more important -than any other, and that was to find the cause of all this ruin, the -future object of his life. Everything else must go; his scheme--he had -thrown down all his papers on the office-table, and left them there, for -what was the good of them now? his love? He took up finally the letter -to Elly, and with his teeth set dropped it into the box at the first -post-office he came to. Having done this he stood all denuded, naked, as -it were, before fate, and went forth to seek him who was the cause of -it all--his father the convict; the man whom it would be his duty to -serve and care for, who was all that was left to him in life. - -Perhaps, if it had not been for this failure in respect to his work, for -the betrayal of which he had been the victim, and the prompt discovery -and consequent abandonment of him by his employers which had followed, -John would not have been so certain of his duty. He never could have -taken his mother’s advice and altogether forsaken the father whom he had -so unfortunately discovered. But he might have been induced to conceal -May’s existence, and to make some compromise between abandoning him -altogether and burdening his life with the perpetual charge of him, as -he now intended. The conjunction of circumstances, however, had narrowed -the path which lay before him. Never, in any case, could he have kept -Elly to the tie, which as yet was no tie, when he discovered the -disgrace which overshadowed his family; and with both his great motives -withdrawn--his love and his ambition--what did there remain for John? To -enter with his reputation as a social traitor the service of Spender & -Diggs? As soon would a soldier in the field desert to the enemy. And -what, then, remained for him to do? Australia, where there was a fresh -field, and where not only he but the poor burden on his life, the soiled -and shamed criminal, would be unknown, and might begin again. - -The first thing, however, was to find him; but John had not much doubt -on that point. After a little pause of consideration he set out for -Montressor’s lodgings, feeling convinced that the actor would at least -know where he was to be found. The Montressors, notwithstanding their -return to fortune through the success of Edie, were still in the old -rooms in one of the streets off the Strand, up three pairs of stairs, -the same place in which John had supped upon hot sausages on his first -night in London. How strange it was that an incident so trivial should -have altered the colour of his whole life! For had he not, in his boyish -folly, called himself John May to that chance friend, it might so have -been that this discovery never would have been made. It was with a sigh -that John remembered, shaking his head as he went up the long dingy -stairs, that after all this had nothing to do with it, and that it was -something more uncalled-for still, an accident without apparently any -meaning in it, which had brought him directly in contact with his -father, on the first night on which that contact was possible. The very -first night! He had to break off with a sort of satirical smile at this -accidental doom, when the door was opened by Mrs. Montressor, who looked -at him with a startled expression, and not the welcoming look with which -on his rare visits she had always met him. - -‘Oh, Mr. May!’ she said; then paused and added, hurriedly, ‘Montressor -is out, and I am just going to fetch Edie from the rehearsal. I am so -sorry I cannot ask you to come in.’ He thought she stood against the -door defending it, and keeping him at arm’s length. - -‘It does not matter,’ he said. ‘I had--no time to come in. I wanted to -find out from Montressor the address--of a friend.’ - -‘What friend?’ said the woman, quickly. - -‘He must have told you, Mrs. Montressor, of the discovery we made: that -his friend May--was--my father: no more than that: though it had been -kept from me and I didn’t know.’ - -‘Oh, no, Mr. Sandford,’ cried Mrs. Montressor, ‘that was a mistake, I am -sure. You see I know your real name. I found it out long ago, but I -never told Montressor. No, no, Mr. Sandford, it is all a mistake. He is -no relation of yours.’ - -A sudden gleam of hope lit up John’s mind, but faded instantly. - -‘He is my father,’ he said, ‘there can be no mistake.’ - -‘Oh, no, no,’ said the woman, beginning to cry. ‘It can’t be, it shan’t -be; there is none of that man’s blood in you.’ - -‘Hush,’ said John, ‘he is my father. Tell me where I can find him; that -is the best you can do for me, Mrs. Montressor.’ - -‘I can’t, then,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. I will tell you frankly he has -been here, but I would not have him; I know him of old: and where he is -now I don’t know.’ - -‘But Montressor knows.’ - -‘Very likely he does. I can’t tell you. He is out. I don’t know where -he has gone. I’ll give you no information, Mr. Sandford, there! If he -has the heart of a mouse in him, he will never let you know.’ - -‘And what sort of a heart should I have if I let him elude me?’ said -John. ‘No, if you would stand my friend, you must find him out for me. I -am going abroad. I am leaving England--for good.’ - -‘Is it for good?’ said Mrs. Montressor. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s for bad, my -poor boy.’ - -‘I hope not,’ said John, steadily, ‘at all events it’s all the good that -is left me. And I cannot go without him. Tell Montressor, for God’s -sake, if he wants to stand my friend, to bring my father to me, or send -me his address.’ - -It took him some time to convince her, but he succeeded, or seemed to -succeed, at last. And he went away, not at all sure that the object of -his search was not shut up behind the door which Mrs. Montressor guarded -so carefully. He resumed his thoughts where he had dropped them, as he -went down again the same dark and dingy stairs; they seemed to wait for -him just at the point at which he had left off. The very first night! -he almost laughed when he thought of it: and then he began to account to -himself for that meeting, following up the course of events to the time -of his first acquaintance with Joe. He went back upon this carelessly -enough, remembering the man in the foundry at Liverpool, and before -that, before that---- John started so violently that he slipped down -half-a-dozen steps at the bottom of the stairs, and a sort of stupor -seized his brain till he got into the open air and walked it off. - -There came before him like a picture the evening walk with Mr. Cattley, -the tumult outside the ‘Green Man,’ the half-drunken tramp who wanted -some woman of the name of May. Good God! was he so near the discovery -then, and yet had no notion of it! He remembered the very attitude of -the man sitting with his back against the wall, maundering on in his -hoarse tones, half-drunk, muddled yet obstinate, about his mate’s wife -and the news he was bringing. Could it be his mother--_his mother!_ the -fellow was seeking all the time: and had he got thus closely on the -scent from some vague information about the change of habitation made -by his grandparents? How strange all seemed, how impossible, and yet how -natural! And to think of the boy going gravely by, disgusted yet -half-amused, with his lantern, looking down from such immense heights of -boyish immaculateness upon the wretched, degraded creature who played -the helot’s part before him, and called forth his boyish abstract -protest against the cruelty of the classic moralists who thus essayed to -teach their children by the degradation of others. It all came before -him, every step of the road, the aspect of everything, every word almost -that had passed between Mr. Cattley and himself. And all this time it -was himself whom Joe was seeking, and at last--at last--his message had -come home! He seemed to be gazing at the village street, and that first -act of the tragedy played upon it, with a smile to himself at the -strange, amazing, incredible, yet still and always so natural--oh, so -natural--sequence of events--when all of a sudden his heart seemed to -turn that other corner under the trees, and, with a rush of misery, it -came back to him that Elly, Elly, was and could be his Elly no more. - -He never knew very well how it was that he spent the rest of this long -afternoon and evening. He walked about, looking vaguely for some trace -of his father, or Montressor, or Joe, but saw nothing of them, as may be -supposed; and then he went from shop to shop of the outfitters, where -emigrants are provided with all they want on their voyage: and finally -went back to his rooms, and, in the blank of his misery, went to bed, -not knowing what to do. - -And thus, in the changed world, in the darkened life, the evening and -the morning made the first day. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. - - -Another followed; and then another morning after that. - -Night and day were much the same to John in this dreadful pause of -existence. Sometimes he dozed in the day, in utter weariness and -sickness of heart, after coming in from an unsuccessful search for some -trace of any one of those three men who had so changed the course of his -life; often lay awake through the slow and terrible night, in which all -manner of miserable thoughts came crowding about him like vultures, so -that he did not know which was most insupportable, the night or the day. -The wondering looks of the people in the house, the shaking of the head -of his landlady, Mrs. Short, who saw all her fears realised, and made -no doubt whatever that John had been tempted, and had fallen, and had -been dismissed by his employers with obliquy, did not affect him, for he -was unconscious of them. He sought no comfort from his mother, who was -the only confidant he could have had--indeed, he sought comfort nowhere. -He did not recognise the possibility of any succour existing for him at -all. - -Again he had slept late on the morning of the third day. By that means -he seemed to cheat time of one little bit of its tedious, soul-consuming -power. The day was a little less long when he thus managed to steal an -hour from it, and this habit, which the troubled and sorrowful share -with the idle and dissipated, easily steals upon those who are -unemployed and unhappy. He felt that he hated the light, as so many have -done before him. To turn his face to the wall, to close his eyes upon -it, to push as far from him as possible the new day, in which there -could be nothing but evil, was a little gain in the dearth of all -comfort. John was roused with a start by some one knocking at his door, -to bid him make haste and come downstairs, where two ladies were -waiting for him. - -‘Missis wants to know if she’s to send up breakfast for them?’ the -serving maiden inquired. - -John, in his consternation, did not answer the question. Two ladies! -After a while, he said to himself, while he completed his dressing -hastily, that no doubt his mother had sent for Susie, and that together -they had come to plead with him to abandon the unfortunate, to keep -everything secret. John smiled at himself in his glass at the thought. -Abandon him! The poor culprit, the convict, the deserted father had been -more magnanimous than they were, and had fled from him not to shame him. -So much the less could his son abandon him. He prepared himself to tell -them his resolution as he finished his dressing. Susie would cry, -perhaps, but neither of them would care much: why should they care? He -had never entered actively into their lives. It would be nothing to them -to lose him. They might, indeed, have been proud of him, had he come to -be, as he believed he should so short a time ago, a successful and -famous engineer. But pride and love were two different things. They -might plead as they pleased, but he would not give in to them. What, -preserve this hideous secret, cheat the world into supposing them an -honourable family? That might have been, perhaps, had John been entering -upon a successful career, accompanied by the plaudits of the office, and -with many things depending upon him. But now when nothing depended upon -him, when he was considered to have justified all prejudices against him -(of which now he knew the cause) and to be himself a traitor--_now_ that -he should shrink from doing his duty! No, no! His father after all was -everything that belonged to him, as he was the only thing that belonged -to his father. - -He went through all this with himself as he prepared to go downstairs. -And he threw himself into their thoughts. He fancied how, as they heard -his step coming down, they would say over to each other the arguments it -would be best to use, and the mother might perhaps suggest to Susie to -be more loving than usual to win him. It was very likely that she would -do that. And when John opened the parlour door and found himself in a -moment caught in some one’s arms, the first flush of consciousness in -his mind was that to the letter the programme was being carried out. - -But that flush of consciousness was very brief. The next was different, -it was rapture and anguish mingled together. For the arms that were -flung about him, the face that was put close to his was not his sister’s -but Elly’s--Elly’s! Good heavens! - -‘Don’t!’ he cried, putting her away from him, putting away her hands -from his shoulders. ‘Don’t! for the love of God.’ - -‘Jack!’ she cried, ‘Jack!’ and kissed him determinedly, openly, without -a blush, flinging off those deterring hands. - -‘Oh, Jack, my boy, what does all this mean?’ said another voice behind. -Had he gone mad, or was he still in a dream? For this mocking spirit -seemed to speak with Mrs. Egerton’s voice. The whole world seemed to -swim in his eyes for a moment, and then things settled back into their -place, and he found himself standing in his parlour with two ladies -indeed, but the ladies were Elly and her aunt. Mrs. Egerton was seated -in the only easy-chair in the room, the one which May the convict had -preferred, and Elly stood all eagerness and life, like a creature made -out of light, in the full shining of the morning sun which came in at -the end window, and which had caught and translated itself bodily to her -hair. - -John stood apart, like the shadow of this lovely group, which was of the -light, as he said to himself, and could not have too much shining upon -it, while he was of the dark and could do nothing but retire into the -gloom. He turned towards Mrs. Egerton with a trembling which he could -not disguise. - -‘Why,’ said he, ‘did you come here? Why have you let her bring you--Why -have you brought her here?’ - -‘Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, ‘what does it all mean? Do you think anyone -who cared for you as we do could be satisfied with what you said?’ - -‘But you--didn’t much care for me,’ he said, feeling stupified and -unable to face the real issue. She made a little gesture of impatience. - -‘I know you have some reason to speak. I was against you: but that’s a -very different thing from this. Do you think your friends could give you -up when you were in trouble, my poor Jack? Oh! no! no----’ - -‘Oh no, no, no,’ echoed Elly. ‘Not even papa. He said that we must come -and see----’ - -‘Yes,’ cried Mrs. Egerton, ‘my brother himself. He said what of course -anybody would say, that to let you go off and make a martyr of yourself -for some unknown reason was out of the question. He would have come -himself, but you know he never goes anywhere.’ - -‘And Mr. Cattley offered to come,’ said Elly, ‘but we felt that we were -the right people to come, Jack.’ - -He stood stupified listening to the alternation of the voices, both so -soft in their different tones, both--in view of him, and in the ease and -everyday circumstances of his lodging, and his appearance, which was -little changed--beginning to feel at their ease too, and as if nothing -could be so terrible as they had supposed. It relieved their minds -beyond description to see everything in the usual order of a place in -which people were living. No man could be in the depths of a catastrophe -who had his breakfast-table neatly set out and the _Standard_ folded by -his plate. ‘He has given us a fright for nothing,’ Elly had said. The -appearance of John indeed gave them a moment’s pause, for he was very -pale, and his eyes had a worn and troubled look which it was impossible -not to remark. But two days’ illness, or the failure of his scheme, or -any other trifling (as these ladies thought) matter, would have sufficed -to do that. As he did not say anything, being too much confused and -disturbed and miserable and (almost) happy, to do so, Mrs. Egerton went -on, in her calm voice, the voice of one who was accustomed to no -infringements of the happy ordinary course of life, - -‘Now that we are here, don’t you think you might give us some breakfast, -Jack? We have travelled most part of the night.’ - -He went and gave the necessary orders without a word--which, however, -was not necessary, for Mrs. Short herself met him in the passage, -bringing up the ‘things.’ The sight of these visitors had at once set -John right in his land-lady’s mind. Mrs. Sandford, who was his ma, was a -dignified functionary, and worthy of every respect, but she was still -only Mrs. Sandford of the hospital: whereas the ladies who thus arrived -with their travelling-bags in the early morning were ladies to their -finger-tips, and had every sign of belonging to that class of the -community, more respected than any other by the masses, which has -nothing to do. And before he could remark upon the extraordinary -position, the horror and the ridicule of it, John found himself sitting -down to table with his cheerful guests, who were delighted to see that -there was really nothing much to make any fuss about, and put off the -explanation till after breakfast with the greatest composure, making -themselves in the meantime very much at home. - -Elly pried about at all his treasures, found out her own photograph in -the place from which he had not removed it, shut up in a little velvet -shrine--and opened his books, and took out a rose-bud from among the -little knot of flowers which one of John’s pensioners brought him -regularly. She gave him a bright glance of love and sauciness, and put -the rose into her bodice. Poor John! How happy it would have made him a -week ago: what an aggravation of misery it was now: an anguish made more -poignant by this mingled sweetness, which broke the poor fellow’s heart. - -They breakfasted, almost gaily, making even John for a moment or two -forget himself. And then when the meal was over the examination began. - -‘Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, ‘it has been a great comfort to see -you--though you wrote in such a solemn tone--looking fairly well upon -the whole. Tell us, what made you do so, now?’ - -Elly sat down beside him, leaning against his chair. - -‘Yes, tell us, Jack,’ she said. - -She was smiling, almost laughing, at his paleness, at his trouble, with -not the faintest notion what it was, or indeed that it could be anything -worthy, she would have said, of ‘the fright he had given them.’ Her -attitude, her smile, the way in which she looked at him, so tender, so -saucy, so frank, overwhelmed poor John. He got up hurriedly, leaving -her astonished, deserted in the place she had taken, and confronted them -both in an access of self-controlled, yet impatient misery, with his -back to the wall. - -‘I will tell you,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘if you insist upon it. I said so -in my letter. It would have been kinder to let me go away, and take no -notice. But if you insist I must explain.’ - -‘Insist! Explain!’ said Mrs. Egerton. ‘How is it possible not to insist -when you speak as you have done. Did you expect us really to let you -break off everything and disappear without a word?’ - -‘Mrs. Egerton,’ said poor John, ‘you said there was no engagement to be -allowed between Miss Spencer and me.’ - -Elly got up at this amazed, and went and stood by him, and touched his -arm with her hand. ‘Oh, Jack!’ she said, with a reproach which went to -his heart. - -‘Well,’ said Mrs. Egerton, ‘that is true. I said I would not hear of it; -but that is very different from suddenly breaking it off on the man’s -side, without a word.’ - -‘Oh, very, very different!’ cried Elly. ‘Aunt Mary, he never, never -could intend to use me so.’ - -It was all a sort of sweet trifling to Elly, a sort of quarrel to be -made up, though without any of the harshness of a quarrel--a little -misunderstanding that could only end in one way. - -And he stood leaning up against the wall facing them, with his sad -knowledge in his heart, knowing that it was no trifle that stood between -them, but a great gulf which neither could cross. He stood and gazed at -them for a moment, his eyes and his heart and every member of him -thrilling with insupportable pain. - -‘I will tell you if you wish it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to tell you, -but if I must, I must. I told you that I always believed my father to be -dead. He was nothing but a vision to me. I remember him only as a child -does. I believed he was dead.’ - -‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Egerton, interested, but mildly, while Elly continued -to look up, smiling into his face. - -‘I remember, too,’ she said, ‘how he used to come in and take you out of -bed.’ - -The unfortunate young man shuddered. It was so dreadful to think of this -now, and to think that the cause of all his trouble remembered it too, -as the one distinct thing when so much was blank. And to see the -untroubled curiosity in their faces, so unexpectant of the thunderbolt -which was about to fall! - -‘The reason he has been out of sight so long is--that he has been in -prison for forgery for fourteen years. He came out about a month since, -and I found him the first night, but without knowing who he was. He is a -convict, and has been in prison for fourteen years.’ - -Mrs. Egerton uttered a low cry as if somebody had struck her. As for -Elly, she did not understand, but looked at him again with growing -wonder, as if she knew only from his face, not from what he said. - -‘It is easily explained, isn’t it?’ he said, with a strange smile; ‘not -much trouble, that is how it is. I knew nothing, no more than you did, -or I should be inexcusable. Now you have heard it, take her away. Oh, -Mrs. Egerton, now you know--spare me, and take her away.’ - -‘Jack! God bless you, my poor boy. Oh, Jack, I never dreamt of this. God -help you, my poor boy.’ - -‘Yes, I hope He will: for nobody else can. It is like that in the -prayer-book--“Because there is none other that fighteth for us.” Take -her away. She can’t understand. Oh, Mrs. Egerton, for God’s sake, take -her away.’ - -‘Yes, Jack; yes, I will; that is, I will if I can. Elly, do you hear -him? He does not want us; not now, not at this dreadful moment. Oh, my -poor, heart-broken boy! Oh, God help you, my poor Jack!’ - -Mrs. Egerton got up, as if she intended to go away; but then she stopped -and held out her hands to him, and finally drew him to her, and gave him -a kiss upon his pale cheek, bursting out into crying as she drew him, -resisting, into her arms. - -‘Oh, my poor boy! oh, my poor boy! how are you to bear it?’ she cried. - -Oh, if he could but have put his head on her motherly bosom, and cried -like a child, as even a man may do, like one whom his mother comforteth! -But John, with Elly on the other side of him, resisted, and would not do -this. He said, hoarsely: - -‘I can’t bear it--I must bear it: only take her away.’ - -‘Elly--Elly! do you hear? We make it worse for him. You and I must not -make anything worse for him. Elly, let us go away.’ - -‘It seems as if I had nothing to do with all this,’ said Elly, with -trembling lips. ‘Yet I thought it was me you loved, and not anyone else. -I thought----’ - -‘Oh, Elly!’ Mrs. Egerton cried, weeping, ‘don’t you see you are -torturing him? Oh, I wish I knew what to do! Elly, don’t you see you are -breaking his heart? Come away, and leave him to himself. It is perhaps -the kindest thing we can do.’ - -Elly did not move. She did not cry, though her lips quivered. She stood -up straight by his side, as if nothing would ever alter her position. - -‘You may go,'she said, ‘Aunt Mary. You are not so very near a relation: -but I am not going, not a step. What, just when he wants me? Just when -it is some good to have some one to stand by him. I shall not move, not -a step. I am in my proper place. Is that all you know of Elly, Jack?’ - -There had been a faint tapping for some time at the door, which in the -excitement and agitation of the little company within had gone on -without notice. They were all too much absorbed to be conscious of it, -or, if conscious, to think of it as appealing in any way to them. To -John it had been a faint additional irritation, a something which -penetrated through all the rest like a child crying or a door swinging, -nothing that affected himself or made any call upon him. At this point, -however, the patience of the applicant outside failed, the door was -opened softly, and first a head put in, and then the entire person. It -was Mrs. Egerton who first caught sight of this intruder. She dried her -eyes hurriedly and looked, with a hasty attempt to recover her -composure, at the wistful but still cheerful countenance, with a smile -upon it like the smile of a child who has been punished for some fault, -but comes back propitiatory, with looks intended to conciliate, and a -humble yet not uncomplacent consciousness of being good, and ready to -make amends. A child in such a frame of mind is always amiable, and so -was, to all appearance, the man who stepped softly in, with his hat in -one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. He was scarcely young -enough for the pose, or for the look, or the desire to please and to be -forgiven, and to make all up again, which was in every line of his face. -But to Mrs. Egerton the face was a pleasant one, with a good, _innocent_ -expression, which made her feel that this conciliatory personage could -not be a very great offender. He made her a little bow when he caught -her eye, and seemed to take her into his confidence as he stood there -deprecating, smiling. John did not perceive him till he had come into -the room, and in the same deprecating manner closed the door behind him. -Then he made a step forward, holding out the papers in his hand. - -‘Here,’ he said, and the ladies, watching with sudden interest, were -startled by the bound John made at the sound of this unexpected voice. -‘Here are your papers--Mr. Sandford.’ He made a little pause before the -name. ‘I had no right, I believe, to take them away, but at the moment -it did not occur to me in that light. I thought---- ah!--no, no, that is -all--nonsense. Don’t think of it any more.’ - -For John had darted towards him, caught him by the arm, and said -‘Father!’ in the midst of the little speech he was making. - -‘No, no,’ he repeated, ‘that is all nonsense. Nothing of the sort, -nothing of the sort. Here are your papers, which is the only thing to -think of. I have brought you--your papers. That is all. I didn’t intend -to disturb you in the midst of your friends.’ - -He would have slid out again, or at least he made a semblance of wishing -to slide out, though in reality his eyes were full of curiosity -respecting John’s friends, who on their side gazed at him with an almost -ludicrous dismay. This, at least, was the feeling of Mrs. Egerton, who -stood with a helpless gasp of incredulity and amazement gazing at this -criminal, this untragical, unterrible apparition of whom she had been -thinking a moment before with horror in which no mitigating -circumstance had any part. - -‘I did not think,’ said the culprit, with his deprecating look, ‘that -you would have been at home at this hour. I thought I would find the -room empty when I got here. I had these back from Spender & Diggs last -night. I intended only to leave them--not to disturb you among your -friends.’ - -John’s mouth was so dry that he could scarcely speak. He took May by the -arm and almost forced him into a chair. - -‘I did not seek you,’ he said, ‘God knows. It would be better for us if -you had been dead as I thought. But you cannot go away now on any -pretext of disowning who you are. This is my father, Mrs. Egerton. I -have told you who he is and what he is--there’s no more to say. As for -Miss--as for--for Elly---- Oh, my God!’ - -He stood holding his father by the arm, but with the other hand he -covered his face. Such a cry of anguish could find no words except in -the inevitable universal appeal which human nature takes its final -refuge in, whatever its misery may be. - -Even at this moment, however, the comic element, which mixes with almost -every tragedy, came in when it ought least to have shown itself. May -struggled against the detaining hold with a look of injured amiability -and innocent amazement. - -‘I’m not used to be kept by force,’ he said, turning to the elder lady -with that look of taking her into his confidence. ‘He grips me -like--like a policeman. I don’t know what he wants to do with me: to -expose me to ladies who don’t know me: to make you think---- If I’ve -made a mistake, why, there’s your papers again, and all’s right between -us. Let me go.’ - -Elly stole round to the other side of the prisoner’s chair. - -‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘I don’t know who you are: but you must stay if -Jack wishes you to stay. He is unhappy, do not cross him now. If you are -his father, we are your friends as well as his.’ - -May’s countenance changed. He looked at her with an anxious, furtive -pucker of his eyelids. - -‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘who are you? are you--Susie?’ with a shade of -sudden gravity on his face. - -‘No,’ said Elly, casting at John a glance of radiant defiance, unable -even at that moment to take his rejection seriously. ‘I am--engaged to -Jack.’ - -The man who had brought such dismay and misery with him had no lively -sense of shame, but he had occasional perceptions as keen as they were -evanescent. He looked for a moment at the group round him, and divined -all it meant. It was not easy for the quickest wit to find a remedy. - -‘Madam,’ he said, turning to Mrs. Egerton, ‘this young man has been -working too hard, and he is off his head. Take care of him. It’s a -common thing among inventors; take care of him.’ - -He settled himself on his chair as if he were about to enter on a long, -peaceable explanation; then, in a moment, with the skill which is -learned among criminals, he snatched his arm from John’s grasp and was -gone. The clang of the door as it closed behind him was almost the first -notice they had that he had escaped. - -John was weakened by the sufferings of the past days, and altogether -taken by surprise. He was thrown against the wall, and, for a moment, -stunned by the shock. Mrs. Egerton, half disposed to think the -respectable visitor was right and the young man crazed--half alarmed by -that sudden exit, not knowing what to do--held his hands in hers and -chafed them, bidding some one fetch a doctor, send for his mother, do -something--she knew not what. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -THE FATHER AND CHILDREN. - - -Mr. Cattley had quietly taken possession of Susie and her arrangements -from the moment of the agitating conversation which followed John’s -letter to Elly. It could scarcely be said that he had intended to make a -declaration of love to her--though for some time it had been apparent to -him that this was the solution of all the difficulties of that -disruption in his life which he had not himself done anything to bring -about, yet which was natural and necessary, and a change which he could -neither refuse nor draw back from when it came. The sudden rending -asunder of all the bonds that had fashioned his existence for years had -been very painful to the curate. To keep them up unnaturally, in -defiance of separation and distance, was all but impossible, and yet to -cut himself finally adrift was an operation which he knew not how to -perform. Susie had given him unconsciously the key to all these -difficulties. Had he remained at Edgeley, leading a somewhat pensive and -unfulfilled, yet happy life, his devotion to Mrs. Egerton would have -been in all likelihood enough for his subdued and moderate spirit. It -was as much out of the question that she should marry him as that the -sky and the fields should effect a union, or any other parallel -unconjoinable things: but there was little occasion for any attempt at -such an alliance, considering that the terms on which they stood, of -tenderest and most delicate friendship, were enough for all -requirements. It is delightful to keep up such a tie when circumstances -permit, and no more strenuous sentiment breaks in--but to break it is a -thing full of embarrassment and difficulty. Scarcely any woman is so -unnaturally amiable as to behold the defection of her servant and knight -without a certain annoyance; it is difficult altogether to forgive that -self-emancipation and disenthralment; and on the other hand the very -delicacy and romantic sentiment in the mind of the man which makes such -relations possible fills him with trouble and awkwardness when the -moment comes at which more reasonable and natural ties take the place of -the Platonic bond. - -Mr. Cattley had felt the crisis deeply; he had not known how to detach -himself, or what to do with his life when the disruption should have -been made. Susie’s sudden appearance had been an inspiration and a -deliverance to him. He had felt in her the solution of all his doubts. -And now the sudden trouble which had come upon her, and which in his -interest and long affection for John it was so natural he should share, -came in like what he would himself have called ‘a special providence,’ -to make his way more easy. That he should take her, so to speak, into -his own hands, guide her, take care of her, aid her in everything that -could be done for the family at such a crisis, was natural, most natural -to a man of his character, most convenient in a general crisis of -affairs. That he should step into the breach, that he should defend and -help all who were likely to suffer, that he should manage matters for -any distressed family, and specially help John, and help everybody, was -what all the world expected from Mr. Cattley. It was his natural office. -So that not only Susie but Susie’s troubles came with the most perfect -appropriateness into his life, and afforded him the opportunity of -withdrawing and emancipating himself on the one hand and securing his -own happiness on the other, as nothing else could have done. - -This is not to say that the communication Susie had made to him about -her father had been received by the curate with indifference. It had, on -the contrary, given him a great shock. A convict! That he should connect -himself with such a person--he, a clergyman--a man placed in a position -where all his connections and relationships were exposed to -scrutiny--was a thought which gave him a momentary sensation, -indescribable, of giddiness and faintness and heart-sickness; but the -result of this shock was an unusual one. It made him instantly commit -himself--identify himself with the sufferer; take her up, so to speak, -upon his shoulders and prepare to carry her through life, and save her -from all effects of this irremediable misfortune. This was not the -effect it would have had on ordinary men; but it was so with Mr. -Cattley. The first thing to be done seemed to snatch up Susie, not to -let it hurt her--not even to let her feel for a moment that it could -hurt her. A convict! He remembered the story faintly when he heard the -name, how it had a certain interest in it, in consequence of the -character of the man, whom everybody liked, although the forger had -ruined his family, and plunged all belonging to him into misery. And to -think now, after so many years, that he himself was to be one of the -people plunged into trouble by this criminal of a past time! The shock -went through his nerves and up to his head like a sudden jar to his -whole being. But there was perhaps something in his professional habit -of finding a remedy for the troubles brought under his eye, the quick -impulse of doing something, which becomes a second nature with the -physicians of the spirit as well as with those of the body, which helped -him now. And then it afforded him the most extraordinary and easy -opening out of a difficult conjunction of affairs; that had to be taken -into account--as well as the rest. - -The result was that Mr. Cattley took Susie to London to her mother, and -at once, without anything--or at least very little more--said, took his -place as a member of the family, threatened with great shame and -exposure through the return of the disgraced father, whom some of them -had hoped never to see again, and some had no knowledge of. Nobody but a -clergyman could have done this so easily, and even Mrs. Sandford, with -all her pride and determination to share the secret with no one, could -not refuse the aid of a cool head and sympathetic mind in the emergency -in which she found herself placed. She was too much pre-occupied by her -great distress to have much leisure of mind to consider this sudden new -arrival critically as Susie’s suitor. At an easier moment that question -would no doubt have been discussed in all its bearings--whether he was -not too old for Susie; whether he was not very plain, very quiet; -whether they had known each other long enough; whether they suited each -other: all these matters would have afforded opportunity of discussion -and question. But in the present dreadful emergency there was no time -for any such argument. - -‘Susie has accepted me for her husband,’ Mr. Cattley said (which, -indeed, Susie had scarcely done save tacitly), ‘what can I do to help -you?’ There seemed nothing strange in it. It was his profession to have -secrets confided to him, to help all sorts of people. Even Mrs. Sandford -could not resist his quiet certainty that their affairs were his, and -that he could be of use. And he had all the strength and freshness of a -new agent, impartial, having full command of his judgment. He had none -of John’s stern and angry Quixotism and determination not to lose hold -again of the father who was a disgrace to him, that fiercest development -of duty--neither did he share the horror and loathing of the wife for -the man who had betrayed and disgraced her. He was of Mrs. Sandford’s -mind that the culprit should be kept apart, that no attempt should be -made to reinstate him in the family; and he was of John’s mind that May -could not be abandoned. He agreed and disagreed with both, and he was -sorry for all--at once for the family driven to horror and dismay by -such a sudden apparition, and for the unfortunate criminal himself, thus -cut off from all the ties of nature. - -Susie took no independent action in the matter. She left it now to him, -as she had left it all her life to her mother, feeling such questions -beyond her, she who was so ready and so full of active service in the -practical ways of life. She left the decision to those who were better -able to make it, but with an altogether new and delightful confidence -such as she had never known before; for Mr. Cattley was far more -merciful than anyone who in Susie’s experience had ever touched this -painful matter. Mrs. Sandford had desired nothing so much as never to -hear the name of the husband through whom she had suffered so many -humiliations and miseries again; but Mr. Cattley would not permit the -natural right to be shaken off, or the claims of blood abandoned. Susie -turned to him with a gratitude which was beyond words in her mild eyes. -Her mother’s panic and loathing were cruel, but he was ever kind and -just. She looked at him with that sense that he was the best of created -beings, which it is so expedient for a wife to possess. Even love does -not always carry this confidence with it, but Susie was one of the women -who will always, to the last verge of possibility, give that adoration -and submission to the man upon whom their affections rest. And happily -she had found one by whom, as far as that is possible to humanity, they -were fully deserved. - -They set out together in the morning sunshine, after many arguments and -consultations with Mrs. Sandford, to seek John in his lodgings and -settle if possible upon some common course of action. But, though so -many painful questions were involved, these two people were able to -dismiss them as they walked along together. They seemed to step into a -land of gentle happiness the moment they were alone with each other, -though in the midst of the crowded streets. They went across the bridge -making momentary involuntary pauses to look at the traffic on the river, -forgetting that they ought not to have had any attention to spare for -such outside matters. Though Susie was entirely town-bred, they looked -what they were henceforward to be--a country pair, a rural couple come -up from their vicarage to see the world. There ought not to have been so -much ease, so much sweetness in the morning to May the convict’s -daughter: and yet she could not help it, there it was. And to Mr. -Cattley, who had always been accustomed to a somewhat secondary place, -the sensation of being supreme was strangely delightful. A woman who can -give that unquestioning admiration, that boundless trust, is always -sweet. It is not every woman that can do it, however godlike may be the -man: and the curate did not believe that he was godlike. But yet it was -very delightful that she should think so. It was a surprise to him to -receive this tender homage; but it was very sweet. - -They had reached the quiet street in which John’s rooms were, when Susie -was suddenly roused out of this heavenly state by the sight of some one -coming hastily out of her brother’s door. They were still at a -sufficient distance to see that he came out half-running, as if pursued, -and that he looked round him with alarm as he came towards them, -stumbling a little with uncertain steps. Something perhaps it was in -this somewhat wavering movement which roused old recollections in her -mind--and her father, but for that temporary lapse into personal -blessedness, had been very much in the foreground of her imagination. - -She let go Mr. Cattley’s arm with a shock of sudden awakening, with a -cry of ‘Papa!’ She recognised him in a moment. He was in reality very -little changed, far less changed than she was, the austerity of his -prison life having preserved the freshness of early years in his face. - -‘Papa,’ she said, and stopped and reddened with sudden emotion, ashamed -to look at him who she thought must stand abashed before her, and for -the first time fully apprehending this tragedy, which no one could -smooth away. - -‘Eh!’ he cried, and gave her a hurried look. ‘I am in a great hurry. I -can’t speak to you now:’ then he stopped reluctantly, for the first time -realising what she had said. No, it was not shame; he was not afraid of -meeting her eye: but a look of curiosity and interest came into his -face. ‘What’s that you are calling me? Do you know me? Who are you? Are -you----? is this Susie?’ he said. - -‘Oh, yes, papa, it is Susie. Don’t go away. We were coming to look for -you, to ask--don’t go away from us. You are not at all changed,’ she -said, putting out her hands to detain him, ‘you are just the same. Papa, -oh, where are you going? Don’t go away.’ - -‘You think so? Not changed! I might be--for you are changed, Susie, and -so is the world; everything’s changed. Don’t stop me, I must go; your -brother, if that is your brother--and if you are Susie----’ - -‘Have you seen John, papa?’ - -‘John,’ he repeated, with a half smile; and, though he had been in such -haste, he stopped now at once with every appearance of leisure. ‘He may -be John, but he’s not Johnnie, my little boy. He’s like a policeman,’ he -went on, in a tone of whimsical complaint, rubbing his arm where John -had grasped him; ‘he clutches in the same way. My little chap would -never have behaved like that. And so you’re Susie? I see some likeness -now. You were your mother’s pet, and the boy was mine. Ah! well, it -comes to the same thing in the end. You’re both of you ashamed of me -now.’ - -‘Oh, papa,’ cried Susie, with tears, ‘don’t say so; don’t think so! -John----’ - -‘Yes, I know: he wants to get hold of me, to keep me in some family -dungeon where I can’t shame him. I know that’s what he wants. No, child, -I’m going away. Do I want to disgrace you? I’ll go, and you shall never -hear of me more.’ - -‘Papa,’ cried soft-voiced Susie, ‘come back and let us talk all together -like one family. Come back to poor John’s lodgings. We are all one -family, after all. We are all friends. Oh, come back, come back, papa!’ - -‘He has got ladies there--the girl he is going to marry. Never, never! -I’m not going to have anything to do with him. I’m glad to have seen -you, Susie. God bless you, you’ve got a sweet face. You’re like a sister -of mine that died young. If you ever see your mother--I suppose you see -your mother sometimes?--you can tell her---- Well, perhaps I gave her -reason to hate me and give up my name. You can tell her she’ll never be -troubled anymore with me.’ - -‘Oh, papa!’ Susie drew a long breath and held him firmly by the arm. -‘Here is John. You must speak to John.’ - -John had come hurriedly up to the other side, having followed from his -house, and now put his hand also upon his father’s arm. - -‘I can’t let you out of my sight,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘We must -understand everything, we must settle everything now.’ - -‘Oh, listen to him, papa: it’s not his fault; let us consult together; -we are all one family. Surely, surely we are all friends,’ Susie cried. - -May stood between his children with a sullenness unusual to it coming -over his face. He shook off John’s hold pettishly. - -‘I told you he clutched like a policeman,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind you, -Susie, you’re natural. If I had you with me, I might perhaps---- But -it’s no use thinking of that. You can tell your mother that whatever -happens she shall never be troubled with me.’ - -‘Father,’ said John, with a shudder at the word, ‘we none of us want to -neglect our duties. Now that you are here, you can’t disappear again. -We belong to each other whether we wish it or not. You have a claim upon -us, and we--we have a claim upon you. Come back. Susie, get him to come -back.’ - -A look of panic came upon May’s face. He shook them off from either -hand. - -‘Don’t let us have a row in the street,’ he cried. ‘You’ll bring all the -policemen about. And when a man has once been in trouble they always -think it’s his fault. Let me go.’ - -‘Not without telling us where to find you, at least,’ said John. - -‘Oh, papa, papa!’ said Susie. ‘Don’t go, don’t go.’ - -‘We’ll have all the policemen in the place about,’ May said, looking -round him with alarm. - -Mr. Cattley had stood by all the time saying nothing. He came forward -now, and drew John aside. - -‘Jack, will you leave it in my hands?’ he said. ‘I know everything, more -perhaps than you do. And you’re not in a condition to judge calmly. You -know you can trust me.’ - -‘And who may this be now?’ said May, in a pettish and offended tone. He -turned to the new speaker with a rapid change of front: but changed -again as soon as he perceived what the new speaker was. He had known a -great many chaplains in his time, and had never found them unmanageable. -‘I see you’re a clergyman,’ he said, in his usual mild tones: ‘and you -have a good countenance,’ he added, approvingly. ‘There’s some little -questions to settle between me and--my family. I don’t mind talking of -our affairs with such a--with such a--respectable person. So long as no -attempt is made on my personal freedom.’ He paused a little, and then -laughed with his usual perception of the ludicrous. ‘I’m very choice -over that,’ he said, ‘it’s been too much tampered with already.’ He -looked from one to another as he spoke, with a faint expectation of some -smile or response to his pleasantry: some sense of the humour of it in -Susie’s deprecating anxious face or the stern misery of John. The want -of that reply chilled him for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he -stepped out briskly from between his irresponsive children. - -‘Lead on--as Montressor would say--I’ll follow with my bosom bare--or at -least with my heart open--which comes to the same thing, I suppose,’ he -said. - -This transaction took place so rapidly that John, in his confused state, -and even Susie, scarcely understood what was taking place till they -found themselves alone, watching the two other figures going quickly and -quietly along the street. To Susie it seemed as if in a moment -everything had come right. Mr. Cattley carried off her anxieties with -him, to be solved in what was sure to be the best way. She came close to -John’s side and put her arm within his, supporting him with her -confidence and certainty that all would now go well, supporting him even -physically with the soft backing-up which he wanted so much. They stood -together silent, watching the other two disappear along the street. How -it was that John gave in so easily, and let the matter be taken out of -his hands, no one ever knew; the secret was that he was worn out with -misery and unrest. Body and soul had become incapable of further -exertion, even of further suffering. The only solution possible to his -strained nerves and strength was this--that some one else should do it -for him. For he was incapable of anything more. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -THE GREAT SCHEME. - - -And yet there was something for which the poor young fellow was capable -still. - -While this strange meeting had gone on, a telegraph boy--that familiar, -common-place little sprite of the streets--had made his way to John’s -door; and, unnoticed by the agitated group, had been directed by Mrs. -Short putting out her head and shaking it sadly all the time by way of -protest--to where John stood. This little bit of side action had been -going on for a minute or two without anyone observing it; and it was not -till the group had broken up and John and his sister were standing -together, incapable of speech and almost of thought, watching the others -as they walked away, that the telegraph boy came up and thrust his -message into John’s hand. It seemed a vulgar interruption, breaking into -the tragic scene; and John stood with the envelope in his hand, with a -sense that he was as much beyond the reach of any communications which -could reach him in that way, as if he had come to himself in the land -beyond the grave. But Susie felt differently; the interruption was to -her a welcome break. - -‘Look at it,’ she said, holding his arm close with a woman’s keen -interest in a new event. ‘It may be something of importance.’ - -‘There is nothing of any importance,’ he said, in the deadly languor of -exhaustion. ‘Nothing can make any difference to us now.’ - -‘But open it,’ said Susie. - -He gave her a look of reproach. What did it matter? If the telegram had -been from the Queen, it could have made no difference. Nothing could -alter the fact that he was his father’s son. - -‘But open it,’ Susie said again. - -He tore it open in a languid way, hoping nothing, caring for nothing, in -the blank of despondency and helplessness. Even the words within did -not rouse him. He read and crumpled it up in his hand. - -‘What is it, John?’ - -‘Nothing very much. They want me--in the office,’ he said. - -‘In the office! That makes me think--John, why are you here at this time -of day?’ - -‘If you mean why am I not there---- I haven’t been there for three days. -I have left the office,’ said John, in the carelessness of his exhausted -state. - -She caught his arm again with an almost shriek of dismay. - -‘Left the office! when it is all you have to look to. Oh, John, John!’ - -‘What did it matter? They were very unjust: they made a false -accusation: and then I discovered _him_. I found out why they suspected -me, why I have been suspected all my life--even by you and--my mother, -Susie.’ - -‘Oh, no, John. Oh, no, no, dear John. Never, never!’ cried Susie, -vehemently. ‘Mother has suffered a great deal: she can’t forget: she -can’t forgive even as we do. We do, John, don’t we? We do, we do!’ - -‘Forgive whom? The people that had always doubted me for a reason I -didn’t even know?’ - -His face grew stern. He could say nothing of the other, whom it was both -easier and harder to forgive. Susie did not dare to enter upon that -subject. She gave his arm a little pressure, and said, softly, - -‘Since they send for you, you will go, John? Oh, go! You must not throw -everything away, because----’ - -‘Because--it does not matter to anybody, least of all to me. I’ll go -away to America, or somewhere, and take that poor wretch, that -light-hearted wretch----’ - -‘Oh, John, he is your father.’ - -‘I know: can you say anything worse? are you trying what is the hardest -thing you can say?’ - -‘Oh, John!’ said poor Susie, and began to cry. - -Her confusion, and trouble, and anxiety, not unmixed with a little -exasperation, too, were not to be expressed in any other way. - -He relented a little at the sight of her tears. - -‘I think there’s no heart left in me,’ he said. ‘I make everybody that -cares for me unhappy. You, out here in the street, and there, -inside--Elly.’ - -‘Elly!’ - -Susie’s astonishment was so great that she could not find another word -to say. - -‘_She_ does not cry,’ said poor John. ‘She has come to stand by us. She -is braver than I am. She’s so innocent, Susie, she doesn’t know. If she -knew better, if she knew the world, she wouldn’t come to me, a poor, -shamed, and ruined man, a convict’s son.’ - -‘Oh, John!’ There being no answer to make to this, Susie recurred to the -former subject. He had still the telegram crushed in his hand. ‘That is -not about ruin and shame,’ she said. ‘John, tell me, what does it say?’ - -‘I scarcely know what it says,’ he answered, with an impatient sigh. And -then suddenly, in a moment, by some strange miracle of the nerves and -brain, he seemed to see the message glow out in big letters of flame -quivering through the air, obliterating the shabby walls and long lines -of the pavement, throwing a strange light upon everything--till they got -inside his very soul, and obliterated everything else that was there. -Words which were not divine, nor even very elevated that they should -have moved him so. ‘_Scheme very promising, your presence -indispensable._’ What did that mean? He knew very well what it -meant--that all was not over, as he thought, that life and hope still -remained. What did he care about such empty, impotent things? But so it -was. All was not over, though he insisted within himself that it was so. -The story of May and his little boy might, after all, be but a -fairy-tale that had no sequence or meaning. And he was John Sandford, -and the ball was at his foot once more. - -John scarcely knew how he got to the office on that eventful morning; -but somehow, by force or sweet persuasion, or something that drew him in -spite of himself, he went, leaving the ladies still in his parlour, -where, in the sickness of his heart, he could not see them again. The -sight of Elly was more than he could bear. It was easier to face the -Barretts, and anything they could say to him, than to look at Elly in -her ignorance and certainty, in her all-confident love and courage. She -to stand by him! who would not be permitted to soil her gentle name and -stainless record by the most distant contact with his shame and -wretchedness. Elly! her very name gave him a sick pang of mingled -sweetness and misery. To think she should be ready to do all that for -him--and to think that in honour and justice he ought never to see her -again! - -He found the Barretts, father and son, awaiting him with apparent -anxiety. They both looked up eagerly when he opened the door, and Mr. -William came forward, holding out his hand. - -‘Sit down, Sandford. My father and I wish to have a little talk with -you. We are all sorry for the misunderstanding that occurred when you -were here last.’ - -‘I don’t think there was any misunderstanding. Mr. Barrett told me that -I was doing what he always expected, when I behaved like a traitor and -liar.’ - -‘It was all a mistake, Sandford. I give you my word it was all a -mistake. Father, you had better speak for yourself.’ - -‘I withdraw what I said, if I said that,’ said the old gentleman. -‘Perhaps I have been prejudiced. My opinion is that children are what -their parents make them: but circumstances alter cases. And I hear from -William----’ - -‘The fact is,’ said the junior partner, laying his hand upon the papers -on the table, ‘that this is a most remarkable scheme of yours, -Sandford.’ - -In whatsoever depths a man may be, to have his work or his invention -praised will make his heart jump. Suddenly it seemed to John as if a -great cloud, which had enveloped the world, opened and rolled aside, and -out from behind it, in all the splendour of day, appeared for a moment -the smiling blue. He thought that cloud and darkness had been the shadow -of his father; but that it was not this alone was evident suddenly -now--if only for a moment. He did not say anything in reply, but drew a -long breath. - -‘Spender & Diggs,’ continued Mr. William Barrett, ‘like idiots as they -are, tell Prince that they can’t make head or tale of it: that it’s -mixed up with clever things and nonsense; and that they have sent it -back.’ - -‘The man,’ said John, with a stammering in his voice which his late -masters thought was due to some sense of delinquency; ‘the man who -copied my papers, and who took them without my knowledge, went for them -yesterday and demanded them back.’ - -‘Ah, that explains--! Well, Sandford, most likely we were wrong -altogether. I find a great deal that is admirable in your scheme. We see -business in it,’ said Mr. William, rubbing his hands. ‘We see money in -it. We see our way to making a great thing of it; that’s the fact, -Sandford. We never meant you to take our remonstrance as bitterly as you -did, you know: never. Things looked bad. It looked like an ugly piece of -business--it looked like----’ - -‘Put it in plain words,’ said John, roused to all his old indignation, -and using involuntarily the words his navvies might have used. ‘You -thought it as mean a dirty trick as ever was played?’ - -Mr. William Barrett paused a little and then he burst into a laugh -which carried off a good deal of annoyance and something like shame. - -‘We needn’t quarrel about words,’ he said, ‘but I never believed it in -my heart. I looked for some explanation from you that would clear it up -at once, for I knew you were not the man to do a dirty trick. But I -could get nothing out of you, not even when I went to your rooms that -time, and found you involved deeper and deeper.’ - -‘When did you come to my rooms?’ said John, looking at him blankly. - -‘Sandford,’ said the younger Barrett, ‘look here, my good fellow, you’re -young and you must be careful. Whatever you have been doing, it must -have been worse than an ordinary spree.’ - -John stared at him for a moment without comprehending: and then he -answered; with a kind of smile, - -‘Yes, it was much worse than an ordinary--spree.’ - -‘If it were not that I never knew you to do anything of the kind -before---- Yes, I was there; you had two men with you, and I didn’t like -the looks of them. Now, look here: I didn’t understand then, and I -don’t inquire now, what was the matter; you’ve always been a steady -fellow so far as we have known; you’ll have to be so more than ever, -mind you, if you go into this big thing. The thing’s so big that it will -make your fortune--with the help our experience can give you--and if -it’s accepted, as I have little doubt it will be. But you’ll have to be -careful. Bad company and bad hours, and that sort of thing, will never -do for a rising man.’ - -John made no reply. Bad company! yes, it had been bad company. It was -hard to sit quietly under an imputation which went so entirely against -all the traditions of his life, but it was better perhaps that they -should think so than that they or anyone should know the truth. - -The elder Mr. Barrett shook his solemn head like a wise old sheep, with -his white hair and beard. - -‘Depend upon it,’ he said, ‘without good principles, no man ever did -anything. Clever notions are all very well, but without good -principles----’ - -‘It’s well to have the notions and the principle too,’ said the junior -partner, interrupting hastily. ‘Here are some jottings I have put on -paper, Sandford. You can run your eye over them. That’s what, in case -your plan should be accepted, we would propose. You had better think it -well over and consult your friends: and in the meantime make use of any -assistance you want in the office to put it all in right form. If you -will take my advice, you will lose no time.’ - -John looked over the paper put into his hand with a dimness in his eye -and a throbbing in his head, as if all the machinery that would be -wanted in the work had suddenly been set going in his brain. It clanged, -and whirred, and rang as if all the great wheels were going and the -pistons falling, and every motive power in action; and then there -suddenly rolled out before him like a panorama the future life which he -had planned and hoped, the great works in which his mind should be the -directing force, and all the industries that depended thereupon. It was -not, perhaps, what the youthful dreamer would ordinarily think a -romantic picture. He seemed to see all the great workshops, the men in -the foundries in the glare of their red furnaces, the brickworks, the -regiments of excavators on the soil, a whole busy world of men, with -plenty and prosperity around them. He saw all this in one lightning -flash. This was what had set his imagination soberly aflame when he was -a boy. This was the lighthouse that Elly had shaped among the boundless -possibilities of life in Mr. Cattley’s study. Elly! Ah! that drove away -his dream in a moment, and brought him back to himself, standing in a -great confusion of being in Mr. Barrett’s office, studying the -paper--the paper which was only half visible to him, which made fortune -and favour sure. - -‘I’ll take to-day,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can settle to anything -to-day.’ - -They shook hands with him, even the old sheep, looking out with his -white locks with an immovable face still distrustful of John, yet -compelled to that complaisance; and he went out with _that_ in his -pocket--that which proved his early dreams to be real, which was the -test and touchstone of his value in the eyes of those who had been his -masters, and were best able to judge. He went out, forgetting -everything else that had happened, taking up for the moment his life -where he had dropped it a week before. A week ago he would have taken -that paper to the family at the rectory, and the humbleness of his -origin--his origin, which was so respectable, yet not on the level of -the Spencers--would have been forgotten. Again for one moment more the -elation of his success got into John’s brain. Again he trod on air. He -thought, his brain all dizzy with the sudden rapture, of showing it all -to Elly, making her understand. She would not understand, but she would -think she did, in her heart, if not in her brain, and would jump to the -delight of it, and all that would follow. They would say to each other -that this was the lighthouse, the first idea that had struck their -youthful fancy, Elly’s lighthouse, which had caught John’s imagination -in its earliest dawning, and flashed at last into this great thing. - -The young man in his misery had a revelation, a vision of overpowering -sweetness and delight. Without that spark of divine light from her, he -said to himself, it would never have been, this great work, which he -knew would bring comfort and well-being over a whole district, and make -his name famous, and bring many a blessing: _his_ name; but they should -know, everybody should know that by himself he never would have thought -of it, that it was Elly who had been the first. How could he let the -world know that it was Elly who was the first--not, indeed, to think of -the Thames Valley and its drainage, or how to make an end of the floods, -she who could not, God bless her, manage her algebra even, or work out a -problem to save her life--but only to light up the thoughts that were -good for that sort of thing, to light the first divine beacon of which -all lighthouses were only the development? He was very young in spite of -all his maturity and experience; and for one blissful moment, nay hour, -this elation and rapture took possession of his soul, and made him -forget the horrible passage through which he had gone, and all the -bitter realities around him. He floated once more into a world of light -and brightness, and boundless hope and enthusiasm. All the more -heavenly, for the depth of despair in which he had been dwelling, was -the glory of this, the confidence, the anticipation of everything that -was best both in work and in life, the happiness of carrying it all out, -the delight of talking it over with Elly, explaining it all to her day -by day. She would not understand, not a bit, he said to himself, with -tears of pleasure in his eyes; but it would come to the same thing: for -she would understand him and what he wanted, and it would be her work as -well as his--Elly’s lighthouse, of which the foundations were laid in -Mr. Cattley’s study long ago. - -When suddenly, in the midst of all these delightful thoughts, John felt -himself struck down as if by a great stone, as if it were some falling -meteor, compounded of infernal elements, though coming from the skies. -It came down, down with the straight and cruel velocity which is given -by natural laws, down to the very bottom of his heart. Suddenly there -seemed to appear before him old Barrett shaking his head, and his own -mother, with her suspicious, troubled eyes, watching him, looking for -evil: and the reason of it all. The convict’s son! with the whole world -watching to see when the leaven would break out in him, his father’s -nature, the instincts of the criminal--and even his friends standing -apart in horror and pity, broken-hearted, yet holding his shame aloof. -What could they do but hold him aloof? And Elly, Elly, who wanted to -stand by him, who had come to give him her support, to be his champion, -his stainless white protector! He heard himself laugh in the street like -a madman, laugh aloud with misery, he who had been nearly weeping with -pleasure. God help him, for what could man do for him; or woman either, -or fool, or angel--for was not she all these together, she who could -dream of the possibility of standing up for him still, standing by him, -and he his father’s son? - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -ELLY’S PLEDGE. - - -Mrs. Egerton and Elly were aware, but vaguely, that something was -happening outside while they sat half frightened, bewildered, not -knowing what to think, in John’s little parlour, dismayed by the sudden -appearance and disappearance of the man who was his father, who had -looked at them with that deprecating, good-humoured face, unlike a -criminal, and who yet was--something that they shuddered to think of. -They sat there silent, listening, waiting for John to come back; but -they forgave him that he did not come back. Everything was so -disorganised, so out of gear, that all the ordinary laws seemed -suspended, and even Mrs. Egerton forgave, indeed scarcely thought of, -this breach of all the rules of courtesy. Poor boy! whatever he had -done, she would have forgiven him. She was sorry for him, sorry to the -bottom of her heart. And fortunately they neither of them knew that -Susie had been there, and had fled, afraid to meet them, not knowing -what to say to them. Both pride and honour had kept them from looking -out, from spying upon John, or watching what he was doing. They had sat, -as it were, behind a veil, and only known vaguely and half by instinct -that another scene in this painful little drama was going on outside. -And then silence had come, the sound of the voices had died away, and -they had still sat looking at each other with everything stopped and -arrested round them, not knowing what to think. It was some time before -they made up their minds to go, leaving the address of the house in -which they were in the habit of staying when they came to town to see -the pictures or do a little shopping such as ladies from the country -love. But all these pleasant usages were forgotten in the excitement of -this crisis. - -‘Tell Mr. Sandford we shall expect him as soon as he can come to us.’ - -‘Oh, I will, ma’am, I will,’ cried Mrs. Short, ‘for he have need of his -friends, that I’m sure of. He do have need of his true friends.’ - -Mrs. Egerton was too much subdued and anxious even to take advantage of -this opportunity to inquire into John’s habits and mode of life, which -for a lady accustomed to manage a parish was wonderful, and showed how -serious the emergency was. And then they got into their cab and drove -away. - -These two ladies had come to London in a flush of tender impulse and -kindness, even Mrs. Egerton, who was an impulsive woman, forgetting all -her objections--which, indeed, from the beginning her heart had fought -against. And the thought of John in what seemed an abyss of despair -which had roused Elly to a swift determination to suffer no more -interference, to go to him, stand by him, marry him even in spite of -himself, and whether he wished it or not, had also swept all prudential -sentiments out of the warm heart of her aunt. They had rushed like a -couple of doves flying to save some wounded eagle, like a couple of -generous, inconsequent women, determined that there was nothing in -heaven or earth that could not be overcome by their support and love. He -had been met by some sudden obstacle, perhaps, to the success he had -dreamt of--good heavens, what did that matter? And as for his father, -_his father_, what could he have to do with it? Even now, when they knew -all, though the elder woman had met the revelation with a shriek of -dismay, Elly remained stolidly, stupidly unconscious of any force in it. -It did not affect her intelligence at all: if it was anything, it was a -reason for standing more determinedly, more constantly, by Jack, who -wanted support--that was all. It was not even that she would not permit -herself to see the force of it: she did not, actually. It passed by her -intelligence, and did not touch her. The more reason to stand by Jack! -that was all that Elly saw. - -But as they drove along in the dingy cab, through the endless shabby -streets, in the silence which was rendered more complete by the din and -tumult of London round them, a better understanding came to both--even -Elly began to find a tremor seize her. Her mind began to work in spite -of herself. The moment that crime comes near, within the circle where -honour has been always a foregone conclusion, and any infringement of -the law a thing impossible, is a moment unspeakable, indescribable. It -is bad enough when vice shows itself among all the pure traditions of an -honourable family: but crime--something that cannot be excused by the -force of temptation, that cannot be wept over as affecting the sinner -only, who is nobody’s enemy but his own--but a breach of honesty, a -crime against the law and against the rights of others! There are sins -which are a thousand times more deeply guilty than theft or even -forgery, but they are in a different category. Trial, conviction, the -contamination of a prison, the felon’s obliteration from personality and -right, make up a horror and shame of the actual, undeniable, -matter-of-fact kind, which the dullest feel, and which affect the -innocent with a sensation like a nightmare. - -In the silence of their long drive Mrs. Egerton repeated now and then to -herself, ‘A convict!’ with a shudder. Anything but that; if the father -thus suddenly discovered had been a beggar, if he had been a poor -broken-down drunkard, a reprobate! There are drunkards and reprobates, -alas! everywhere, whom the best of families have to put aside into some -corner, and veil with silence or with pitiful excuses, with abandonment -or sacrificing love. But a convict cannot be hid. A man may live the -purest life, he may win everything that energy and even genius can -secure, but at the end of all the meanest may rise up and say, ‘Behold -the convict’s son,’ and cover even a hero with shame. Imagination could -not go so far as that in picturing the evils that are possible. Poor -Jack! Poor boy! with his father a convict--a convict! The horror of it -was so great and terrible that nothing was possible, save to say over -and over these words of shame. - -And Elly felt it still more deeply in her way. It seemed to ache all -over her, this consciousness which she could never shake off, never -forget. She took it for her own without doubt or question, embraced it, -drew it close to her, with all the _abandon_ of youth. It seemed to Elly -that nobody would ever forget it, that it would be blazoned on Jack, and -all who belonged to them, on their name, their dwelling, and, above -all, on those great things that he was to do. And, of course, he could -not give up his father; he must live with them, be their daily -companion, this man who had spent years and years in a prison. She was -silent, too, with a chill upon all her thoughts. No idea of deserting -him ever came into Elly’s mind. She accepted the misery as for her too. -And all the accounts she had ever heard of the cruelty of the world in -visiting disgrace upon the innocent came into her mind. Could they live -it down? she asked herself, or must Jack, poor Jack, dear Jack, with -only her to console him, live under this shadow, this awful, undeserved -shadow, all his life? - -Things were better when they got to their rooms, where all was quiet, as -quiet as a London street can ever be; and where, as they sat down facing -each other with nothing to do, the irrepressible controversy broke -forth: - -‘Your father will never, never hear of it,’ Mrs. Egerton said. ‘Never! -Even I myself, Elly---- A convict--how could we let you connect yourself -with a convict? And your father and brother both clergymen! Percy would -die first. I am sure he would see you die first. And even your father: -your father--can be very decided when he takes a thing into his head.’ - -‘You said so before, Aunt Mary. You said you never would consent; but -you talk now as if you would have consented; as if you had consented.’ - -‘Ah, that was very different!’ Mrs. Egerton said. And in her heart Elly -felt that it was different, oh, how different! So different, that even -Elly herself felt with a shudder that something was before her quite -other than love and happiness. There would still be love, oh, more than -ever! but bitter with pain and shame. - -It was the afternoon when John came to them. They perceived at once, -with their quick, feminine habit of reading the face and its expression, -that some change had occurred since the morning. Elly rushed to meet -him, when he entered, with both her eager hands held out, but John -turned from her, shaking his head with sorrowful self-control. He came -and sat down opposite Mrs. Egerton. And there followed a moment in -which no one spoke. Mrs. Egerton lifted up her hands, and clasped them -together with the natural eloquence of restrained emotion. - -‘Oh, Jack,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘oh, my poor boy!’ - -Pity, tenderness, reluctance, the inexorable impossible were in her -looks. It could not be, it could not be; and yet it broke her heart to -say so; in such moments there is little need of words. - -‘I want to tell you,’ he said. ‘I want to show you----’ He took Mr. -Barrett’s paper from his pocket, and spread it out before them: the -figures on it were like hieroglyphics in the women’s eyes. ‘This is what -I hoped for,’ he said, ‘when I left Edgeley that day---- I don’t know -how long ago, it might be a century. My great scheme, that I had all my -heart in, is to be carried out. It will bring me a fortune: it is a -great work, a work any man might be proud to do. I have got my foot on -the ladder, sure. It is not mere hope any longer, but sure, as sure as -anything that is mortal can be.’ - -‘Oh, Jack!’ cried Elly, rushing to his side once more. - -‘I am very glad, Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, with a trembling voice, ‘very -glad, very glad, for you--but, oh, my poor boy----’ - -‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you glad, indeed? that’s very good of you. I’m -not glad, not a bit. It doesn’t matter. I’ll work at it all the same, -but I don’t care. It’s the same thing to me whether it goes on or -whether it stops. You need not shake your head, for I know--I know it -makes no difference. But I thought I must come and tell you. I am going -to make my fortune: but it does not matter to anyone in the wide world, -and I don’t care.’ - -‘Jack,’ said Elly, standing by his side, ‘have you made up your mind -that you will pay no attention to what I think or what I say?’ - -He looked at her in such a bewildering passion of misery and -hopelessness that all expression seemed to have gone out of his eyes. - -‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can’t, I can’t--even if you would.’ Then he paused, -drawing a breath which was half choked by something hysterical in his -throat. ‘But I had to come and tell you. It’s what we used to talk of -long ago. It’s--it’s the lighthouse, Elly!’ he cried, with a sudden sob -which all the manhood of twenty-one could not restrain, and buried his -face in his hands. - -She flung her arms round him, bent down over him, holding his bowed head -to her breast. She was half-sister, half-mother, protector, guardian, as -well as his love. Tender, domestic affection, unabashed, as well as the -strong passion of the woman, shone in the eyes with which she turned to -the weeping spectator. - -‘Do you think you or anyone will ever part me from Jack?’ she said. - -‘Oh, children, do not break my heart! Your father will never, never -consent--and Percy--and everybody who knows. Jack, for pity’s sake, tell -her, tell her! She will listen, perhaps, to you.’ - -It was a minute at least, a long, long time, before John raised himself, -detaching those dear arms. - -‘Elly,’ he said, ‘I am my father’s son. People have distrusted me all my -life, and I never knew why. They may distrust me yet, and I will know -the reason, and God knows what it may make of me. No, I know that your -father will not consent.’ - -‘And a girl’s own mind is nothing,’ she cried, indignant, ‘I know you -all think so, whatever you may say.’ - -John turned to Mrs. Egerton with a piteous look. - -‘It is you that must tell her,’ he said, ‘how can I do it? I’m young, -too. I only know you mustn’t decide, Elly, at your age. You don’t know -the world; you don’t know what you’re doing. If everything had been -straightforward with me, you are still above me, gentlefolks, while I am -nobody. You said so----’ - -‘Oh, Jack, Jack!’ said Mrs. Egerton, as if this was a reproach. - -‘Everything is straightforward with you,’ said Elly. She had drawn away -from him with a little movement of pride. ‘But,’ she said, ‘it is true -enough. I don’t know the world, and neither do you. Perhaps we are too -young. If you say that, or if Aunt Mary says that, I will not make any -objection, Jack--how should I? I don’t want to force you to--to have me -before the time----’ - -The extreme youth of both gave them a simplicity of words and good faith -which elder lovers could not have ventured on. He accepted what she said -in all seriousness and humility. - -‘But there’s more than that,’ he said. ‘Oh, Elly, I can’t deny it, I -can’t disguise it, there’s more than that. If it was only that we were -too young! But everything is against us. And how could I, loving you all -my life, owing everything to you as I do----’ - -‘You owe me nothing, nothing, Jack! It is all the other way.’ - -‘Ah, don’t say that, for I know better. I was just thinking--it’s all -you, Elly. I should have gone into an office, or wherever they pleased -to put me. I should not have minded. It was all your lighthouse. And to -think,’ said Jack, as if that furnished him with a new argument, ‘that I -should bring you to shame! Never, Elly; I would rather die.’ He paused a -moment and shook his head. ‘It’s no good talking of dying, is it, at my -age? I’d rather--live alone as I’ve always done, and do my work the -best I could, and agree that there was nothing more for me in this -world.’ - -‘Jack!’ cried Elly, with a kind of shriek of exasperation and tenderness -and contradiction; and then she turned from him, her eyes flaming bright -under the dew of tears, her cheeks like two deep roses, her mouth -quivering, smiling, touched with fine scorn. She wanted some one to vent -her loving wrath, her disdain of all mean arguments, her boundless, -fiery indignation upon. ‘Aunt Mary,’ she cried, ‘how dare you to say so, -or to think it? My father is a gentleman! He may not be much as a -parson--it’s not for me to say: but he’s as fine a gentleman as -Chaucer’s knight. Say all the bad things you please, you two, I know -what’s in papa! He will no more forbid me to marry John than he would -turn against the poor boy himself for what’s no fault of his. But I -won’t do it now,’ Elly added, magnanimously, breaking into a laugh, -which much resembled crying. ‘Not now. I’ll wait till I’m -one-and-twenty. And then I’ll do it with my father’s full consent, -whatever you may do or say, you two!’ - -With which defiance flung at them, Elly majestically marched out of the -room, leaving them to conclude the conference together. What she did -after, whether she did anything but retire to her room and cry, burying -her face in the coverlet of her bed where she had thrown herself, no one -can say; for nobody ever knew from Elly what torrents of tears came -after that thunderstorm, nor how she trembled, and wondered, and doubted -if papa were really so noble, so good, so fine a gentleman as she had -asserted him to be. - -‘They will never consent,’ said Mrs. Egerton, after the girl had gone, -‘Oh, Jack, I wish I could believe as she does, that my brother---- But I -will not deceive you, Jack. He will never, never consent. He is a proud -man, though she does not know it--there are no such proud people as -these simple people. I wish, I wish I could think as she does: but I -can’t, I can’t, Jack!’ - -‘Do you really wish it, Mrs. Egerton,’ said John, taking her hand and -kissing it. ‘I could not have expected that. It is more than I had any -right to hope.’ - -‘Did I say I wished it? I can’t tell. She and you draw the heart out of -my breast. I ought not to wish it. Oh, Jack, my poor Jack, this is a -dreadful thing to bear.’ - -He let her hand go with a deep sigh. ‘Who can feel that as I do?’ he -said. - -‘You; oh, but it is different with you. The man (I am sure I beg your -pardon) is your father. It is your duty to put up with him: it is not -for you to bring up his sins against him. But we that have nothing to do -with him--Jack, oh, Jack, the cases are different! and you say yourself -that Elly ought not--that she knows nothing of the world.’ - -It was ungenerous to appeal to what he had himself said. But he -consented with a melancholy movement of his head. - -‘The rector has always been very kind to me. Oh, yes, I know that’s a -different thing altogether. It is not like giving me---- Mrs. Egerton, I -think I had better go away, for what is the use of talking. He is my -father, it is true. It is my business to put up with it, to bear it--to -bear everything that follows from it--but it is hard. You can’t say but -what it is hard.’ - -‘Oh, Jack, my poor boy! She took his hand in both of hers, and, that not -being enough, bent forward and kissed him in the anguish of her -sympathy. ‘But what can I say to you? I can’t deceive you. I know they -will never, never consent.’ - -John went away, not knowing where he went, as if he were following his -own funeral. He felt like that, he said to himself, sadly--the funeral -of all his hopes. He had his work, but what would that be, what could it -matter if he made his fortune, without Elly? And then he went on -reflecting, as many a man has done before him, on the spite of fate. If -this had all happened before he went to Edgeley, how much less would the -misery have been! It would have been bad enough, but he could have -thrown it off, and perhaps in time have forgotten it: for then Elly was -but a light of his childhood faint and far-off, and had not become a -necessity of his life. Why was he permitted to go and see her again, to -discover all that she was to him, only to lose her for ever? For Elly -had been right in what she had said in her indignation, ‘A girl’s own -mind is nothing.’ Even John, though he had perfect trust in her, though -for a moment he had been carried away by the flash of her resolution and -certainty, did not take much comfort now from Elly’s pledge. She did not -understand (how should she?) what thing it was that so lightly, so -easily, she made up her mind to take upon herself. Poor John put that -aside in the deep despondency that overwhelmed him. And, when his mind -recurred to his momentary triumph of the morning, it but added a pang -the more. To think that this success had secured the only thing that had -been needed a little while ago; and, now he had got it, it was nothing. -He went slowly, slowly away, following (he said to himself again) his -own funeral, not able to hold up his head. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -A SUSPENDED SOLUTION. - - -It seemed to matter very little to John that Mr. Cattley met him in the -evening with what he thought good news. In the absence of anything -better, it was good news. May had been very amiable, as was the manner -of that hopeless but good-humoured and philosophical unfortunate. He -declared that nothing on earth would induce him to injure his children -by attaching himself to them: he had come back to John’s room only to -return those papers which he had taken with the intention of disposing -of them on his son’s account, meaning no harm. He had never meant any -harm. He had intended, perhaps, to secure to himself a share of the -profit, but never to harm the boy. ‘Though he’s sadly changed, if ever -he was my little chap,’ he said. - -Mr. Cattley did not tell Jack, but he confided to Susie that he had -offered to take that smiling and gentle-mannered reprobate to live with -‘us’ in the new parish where nobody would have known. But May would not -listen to any such proposal. He was very wise and foreseeing, and full -of consideration. - -‘There is no saying who might turn up,’ he said; ‘at the last, -everything gets known; and perhaps a parson’s house would be too much -for me,’ he had added, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I don’t know that -I’m good enough for that. I might fall into temptation, don’t you know! -And I couldn’t live with a blunderbuss always at my head, which would be -the case if I were with that son of mine--if he is my son. And Susie -would be worse, with her eyes. I remember her eyes long ago--they were -harder to meet than all her mother’s talk. They’re all very good, Mr. -Cattley. A man might be very happy among them; but not my kind. I’m not -worthy of such company. No, I’ve got a plan of my own.’ - -This plan, when it was stated, was to the effect that May had made up -his mind to emigrate. He thought he would go to the far West of America, -or to California. - -‘I don’t want to go to a place where there’s no fun,’ he avowed, -candidly. ‘I want to see a little life. If I stay here, I’ll get into -mischief.’ - -Mr. Cattley (against his own wishes) had done his best to persuade him -to depart from this determination, but in vain; and finally he had been -authorised to treat with the family for the passage-money of the two -travellers, for Mr. Cattley had found the faithful Joe in attendance, -and had not been able to persuade May that this was not a fit companion -for him. - -‘He has been all the company I’ve had. Perhaps he’s not fit for -respectable society,’ said May, looking at the slouching ruffian with -eyes that were almost affectionate, ‘but I’m not respectable myself, and -why should I pretend to be better than he is? I’m not better, I’m worse, -if the truth was known; for of course I know a great deal better, and -ought to have avoided what was wrong, if anything is really wrong or -right in this world. It depends so much on your point of view.’ - -‘But why should you not be respectable?’ the curate had said. ‘There is -a home waiting for you, and better company than Joe.’ - -The unteachable, the never-to-be-convinced, shook his head. ‘Joe will -suit me best,’ he said. And thus the bargain was made. He was to have a -moderate allowance, his passage-money, and his outfit. He was shipped -off with his friend, decently clothed, well fitted out as he desired, -and disappeared into the West. When his children, half-glad, -half-miserable, went to see him off, he bade them be cheerful and not -fret. ‘For there is no telling when the fancy may take me, and I may -turn up again,’ he said. The hearts of Susie and John sank within them -at this last blessing which he flung at them over the side of the ship, -which was already beginning to churn the water on her passage -outward-bound. They did not see the twinkle in his eye, nor know that he -meant it for a joke in the humorous simplicity of his heart. - -Susie married her curate shortly after, very quietly, without any fuss, -in London, an event which caused much excitement in Edgeley, but none -where it took place. The Rev. Percy Spencer never mentioned it at all, -or allowed that he knew of it. But he spoke of ‘that fool Cattley,’ and -was so violent about the late curate’s mismanagement of the parish that -even the mild rector, who never made any appearance save in extremity, -took up the cudgels on behalf of the absent. - -‘It will be well for you if you do half as much for the parish in your -day as Cattley did in his,’ the rector said; and his son aghast at this -unexpected defence ventured to say no more. Mrs. Egerton treated the -matter in the contrary way. She made, perhaps, too great a joke of it, -talking to everybody on the subject. ‘Such a good thing for him,’ she -said, ‘going into a new place: and a good little nonentity of a wife who -will adore him, which is what our good Mr. Cattley was little used to.’ -But she sent the pair a wedding present, and was what Susie called very -kind. This marriage was no help to Elly, however, in the arduous piece -of work which she found she had before her when she got home. It made -matters a little worse. It turned Percy into an open and violent foe, -and it shook a little the wavering sympathy which Mrs. Egerton always -accorded her. And as for the rector, whom Elly had declared her faith -in, he did not respond as she had hoped. He was a true gentleman, he was -as good as Chaucer’s ‘very parfit gentle knight’--he was all his -daughter had claimed for him to be. But he, too, shuddered at the name -of the convict. Like all the older people, he remembered May’s story, -and all about him: and to permit his daughter, the quintessence of the -family excellence and pride, the flower of all the kindred, to connect -herself with such a race was more than Mr. Spencer’s generosity, or his -kindness, or even Elly’s influence could bring him to. He retired into -that stronghold of silence which is so redoubtable. He would not argue -nor give his reasons; he would not enter into the abstract question. He -acknowledged, or at least he did not contest, the merits of John. But, -when all was said that Elly’s fervid eloquence could say, the rector -remained unresponsive and unshaken. - -‘One might as well try to get an answer out of a stone wall,’ Elly -cried, in hot exasperation to her aunt. - -‘Oh, my dear, didn’t I tell you so? I told poor Jack so and he believed -me, but you would not believe me. He will never, never consent.’ - -‘Then he shall never, never be asked any more!’ cried Elly, in her -indignation. - -But this was a thing which it was not practicable to carry out. He was -asked again and again, and continued to be asked until the time when -Elly should come of age, and then she was determined to take her own -way. - -‘I am disappointed in papa,’ she wrote to John, ‘but it is not out of -his heart he does it. He has not a word to say for himself. When I have -showed him the question in a just light, and proved that all their -objections are prejudice and nonsense, he just goes back to where he was -at first and shakes his head. But never mind. In two years’ (in a year -and a half--in a year--according as time went on, for this formula was -repeated on several occasions) ‘I shall be of age. You cannot say that I -don’t know the world or that I am too young _then_; and they all know -what I am going to do.’ - -John could not refuse to take comfort from this repeated and unwavering -pledge. He had plunged into the preliminaries of his work without a -moment’s delay, and very soon, at an age when in England most young men -are only beginning to wonder what they shall do, he found himself at the -head of one of the greatest undertakings in the country, the centre of -endless activity. Such advancement perhaps, everything favouring, comes -sooner in his profession than in any other. But nobody, except those who -had seen him grow up, suspected how young Mr. Sandford really was, and -even those who did know it could scarcely believe in the accuracy of -their own memory. He had always been older than his years, and the great -shock he had received in the discovery of his father threw him so far -apart from all the thoughts and occupations of youth, that it seems to -John himself like half-a-century, that age of doubt and of misery, when -everything was at its lowest ebb, before the upspringing of new hope. -That grave youth matured under the fire of suffering into something -like a precocious middle-age, or at least the steadiest, sternest -manhood. He grew to be both respected and feared before he was -five-and-twenty. And, what was curious, the resemblance to his father, -which had been chiefly, perhaps, in the imagination of the elders, died -completely away. He became like Mrs. Sandford in these days of strong -activity and doubtful hope: not severe to his men, the multitude of -work-people of all classes who now laboured under him, a whole little -world of clerks, engineers, artisans, and labourers in every grade. He -was not severe ever: it was said indeed that he took circumstances into -consideration and tempered justice with mercy when any fault was pointed -out at the office or among the men, far more than most masters do, and -was slow to lose patience with any young culprit; but he looked severe, -which is the same thing--nay, is better as a deterrent. The people under -him were afraid of the stern look of his youthful unimpeachable virtue: -whereas, if he had been as severe in fact as in looks, a natural -antagonism, the protest of nature against harshness, would have speedily -evolved itself. - -There are some things, however, which John has not been able to do, -notwithstanding his great success. He has never been able to move his -mother from the position in which she has so firmly placed herself. Mrs. -Sandford spoke no more of her husband than was inevitable; she never -recurred to the subject with John, never mentioned it to Susie except on -that one morning when Mr. Cattley was first introduced to her: but she -took upon herself all the arrangements that were made by Mr. Cattley for -May’s comfort, not permitting either son or daughter to interfere. Susie -was proud of this fact, while John with a grudge understood it at -least--that the proud woman could speak more freely to a stranger than -to her children, of the man who had been the ruin of her own life. She -would not see her husband, however, and never spoke of him, nor gave the -least indication of any knowledge on the subject. If she was aware of -the time of his departure, she made no sign of knowing it. There was no -relenting in her, no affection, only a horror beyond words. And she -would not allow John, when he began to grow rich, to remove her from the -laborious post which it seemed no longer right that the mother of a -rising man, with plenty of money at his disposal, should continue to -hold. She smiled at the suggestion, and dismissed it with a wave of her -hand. To return to the little house at Edgeley among all the village -people, which was what John in youthful ignorance, notwithstanding his -precocious middle-age, would have liked her to do, was indeed -impossible. What would she have done there? unless, indeed, the cholera -had broken out, or some tremendous epidemic, when she could have -organised hospitals. John, however, here let us allow, with a great want -of perception, was annoyed that she should not have accepted this -proposal of his, and retired and given herself repose after her -hard-working life. But Mrs. Sandford was not one of the people who long -for rest. ‘The wages of going on’ was what pleased her most, and work, -and her own way. John was not pleased; it would have soothed him to -think that his mother was resting and doing nothing in that little -house, which he kept up always with an obstinate determination that it -should be, if not a grateful retirement for anyone, at least the shrine -of departed innocence and peace. - -We will not conceal from the reader that Elly is now twenty-one and -more, but that the marriage has not yet taken place. There has been -sickness and trouble at Edgeley, and the only daughter of the house has -not been able to withdraw from the post of duty: but since she became of -age she and her betrothed have corresponded fully. She knows everything -that goes on at the works, and all the new steps John is taking, and -received telegrams three or four times a day when that dreadful -catastrophe occurred which everyone has read of, when the machinery -broke down and the water poured back into the old channels, and for a -moment everything seemed in jeopardy. John dragged her into that as if -she had been his head clerk: he demanded her sympathy at every moment, -clamouring in her ears with his telegrams, in a way which excited all -the village. Indeed, there has been no political convulsion, no -contested election, no crime or accident for fifty years, which has -thrilled through Edgeley like that supposed collapse of the works in -the Thames Valley. When all was right, the whole community began to -breathe again. Dick, who was at home on furlough, trudged backward and -forward between the rectory and the post-office for several days, too -impatient to wait for the telegraph boy: and when it was all over he was -the man who electrified the rectory and all the community by saying, -‘This will never do.’ Dick was a man of few words, like his father; an -easy-going man who let other people manage most of his affairs for him; -but when much enforced he would say a word of weight all the more -startling from its rarity. He said these words one evening after dinner -in the midst of the family, suddenly when nobody expected it. He brought -down his hand upon the table, not roughly, but with sufficient sound to -call attention, and he said, - -‘This will never do. This business about Elly and Jack. He is a better -man than any of us. What does it matter who was his father? He’s his own -father, and all his relations. And that Mrs. Cattley’s a sweet little -woman. Don’t let’s have any more nonsense about it,’ said Dick. - -The rector gasped, and Mrs. Egerton fell a-crying, and Percy rose and -left the table. But Elly held out her hand to her big brother, and the -thing was as good as settled from that day. - -Let it be a comfort to all virtuous young persons in a similar position -that, as long as they hold out and are firm and constant, some one will -always arise at the end and face all obstructions with the verdict of -good sense and honest sympathy, saying in face of all unnecessary -objections, whether of birth or of money: ‘This will never do.’ - -But with all his success, and with the happiness which is about to come, -one great cloud remains on John Sandford’s life, a fear which sometimes -takes his breath away and makes his heart sick, the fear that some day -when he suspects nothing, some sweet day--it might be his marriage -morning, it might be any happy anniversary--there will suddenly appear -round a corner a stumbling, shambling figure, never without a certain -attractiveness even in its degradation, a sort of charm of careless -innocence in the midst of guilt. Sometimes when he goes through the -works with perhaps a little elation in the greatness of his undertaking -and the consciousness of the crowd which looks up to him as master, -surrounding him with that veiled obsequiousness which makes the head of -great industrial enterprises like a little king--the sight of some -shadow in the distance will take all the strength and courage out of -him. - -‘There is no telling when the fancy may take me.’ These words come back -to his ears with a meaning far more than was ever intended. But as a -matter of fact there is cause enough to fear. For May never meant -anything steadily or for long all his life. And when the fun to which he -looked forward is exhausted--which is a thing that soon happens on the -shady side of life--who can tell that the fancy may not take him to -bring the remnants of his worn-out existence home? Poor wretch, for whom -love and honour do not exist, but only fear and pity! the good man, the -prosperous and happy, who has deserved his prosperity, as well as the -other deserved his misery, is still the Son of His Father, and still -bound for ever in this world at least, wretchedness to well-being, -honour to shame. - -There is, however, one way in which this piece of personal history may -be safely made to end like a fairy-tale. Susie and her curate went home -to their new parish like a pair of doves to their nest. And these two -lived happy ever after, if ever any pair did so in this troubled yet not -always miserable world. - -THE END. - -LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Son of His Father; vol. 3/3, by -Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SON OF HIS FATHER; VOL. 3/3 *** - -***** This file should be named 60018-0.txt or 60018-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/1/60018/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/60018-0.zip b/old/60018-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index a5df062..0000000 --- a/old/60018-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/60018-h.zip b/old/60018-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 842e900..0000000 --- a/old/60018-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/60018-h/60018-h.htm b/old/60018-h/60018-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 6bc5c6e..0000000 --- a/old/60018-h/60018-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6337 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Son of his Father; vol. 3/3, by Mrs. Oliphant. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.fint {text-align:center;text-indent:0%; -margin-top:2em;} - -.blockquot {margin:1em auto 1em auto;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -.rt {text-align:right;} - -small {font-size: 75%;} - -big {font-size: 130%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-weight:normal;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:100%;font-weight:normal;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - - table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} - - body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} - - img {border:none;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -@media print, handheld -{.pagenum - {display: none;} - } -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's The Son of His Father; vol. 3/3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Son of His Father; vol. 3/3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 30, 2019 [EBook #60018] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SON OF HIS FATHER; VOL. 3/3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="325" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -THE SON OF HIS FATHER.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -</p> - -<h1> -THE SON OF HIS FATHER</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF</small><br /> -<br /> -“IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS,” “AGNES,”<br /> -“THE LAIRD OF NORLAW,”<br /> -ETC., ETC.<br /> -<br /><br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -VOL. III.<br /><br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED,<br /> -13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br /> -1887.<br /> -<small> -<i>All rights reserved.</i></small><br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS<br /><br /> -<small>OF</small><br /><br /> -THE THIRD VOLUME.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td> </td> -<td><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">The Great Scheme</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">Mr. Sandford’s Secretary</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_18">18</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">John on his Trial</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_34">34</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Defeated and Wronged</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_51">51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">The Culprit</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">A Crisis</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_80">80</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Mrs. Sandford’s View</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_96">96</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">The Convict</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">The First Shock</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_129">129</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Mother and Son</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_147">147</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Susie and her Lovers</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_165">165</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">John’s Letter</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_183">183</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">The Darkness that could be Felt</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_203">203</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">The Valley of Humiliation</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_220">220</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">The Father and Children</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_242">242</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">The Great Scheme</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_260">260</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">Elly’s Pledge</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_277">277</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">A Suspended Solution</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_295">295</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<p class="c">THE SON OF HIS FATHER.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>THE GREAT SCHEME.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">John’s</span> imagination, though it was so full of other matters, was affected -more than he could understand by his strange visitor. He felt himself -going back a hundred times in the course of the evening to this man, and -those curious sophistries which he produced, always with that half smile -in his eyes, as if he himself saw the absurdity in them, and as if -morals and reason were something outside of himself to be treated with -entire impartiality.</p> - -<p>John wondered how far he believed or disbelieved what he had been -saying, and whether these dispassionate discussions of what was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> -formally right or wrong took away from a conscience, which could not be -very delicate or sensitive, anything of the burden. They set him -thinking too, following the career of such a being, trying to -understand. Drink—was not in the decalogue, as his visitor had said: -and John had seen enough even in his short life to know with what -facility, with what innocence of evil meaning, the first step may be -taken in that most general, most destructive of all vices—the one which -leads to so many other developments, and which involves, as that -philosopher had allowed, consequences more terrible, and penalties more -prompt and inevitable than any other. John was very strenuous against -it, almost bitter, having seen, as everyone has seen, its disastrous -effects upon both body and soul. And yet, perhaps it was true what the -other had said. Perhaps there were sins which brought no immediate evil -consequences, which yet were blacker in the sight of heaven.</p> - -<p>He felt himself wondering, with an indulgent feeling which was strange -to him, how it was that a man who had nothing in him of the criminal -air, a man full of thoughtfulness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> humorous observation, and a -knowledge of the workings of the mind, should have fallen into crime, -and should have sunk into those depths and abysses of misery where he -had no friend but Joe. A man must have reduced all the motives of human -life to their elements, he must have banished all consideration of the -outward and visible, all thoughts of the alleviations, the consolations, -the comforts and stays of existence before he could have sunk -contentedly to the bottom, and cynically, stoically, smilingly, -despairingly, made himself believe that his brutal ‘mate’ was as good as -any other, being all that remained to him.</p> - -<p>And what, John asked himself, could remain for a convict whose world for -so many years had been limited to the interior of a prison, and who in -the course of working out his sentence had lost everything? What -remained? One would suppose the poor wretch’s family, somebody who -belonged to him, some wife or sister, or daughter. And then came his -story: It is Corban—a gift. John felt his own heart bleed at the mere -thought of this hopeless, succourless, yet uncomplaining misery. A man -who could manage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> still to smile in the face of all that, to maintain -still the attitude of a thinker, of an observer looking on at his own -entire destitution with impartial eyes, with that calm and full -understanding and humorous despair—the young man shuddered in the midst -of his own success and prosperity, and love and hope. Could there be a -more complete and absolute contrast? It was so great that his heart -seemed to stand still as he contemplated it—a distance as of heaven -from hell.</p> - -<p>The evening was spent in very close work; for he found that a great many -details had to be filled in and made clear before the plan, worked out -in his own brain, could be made presentable to the experienced and -critical eyes to which he meant to submit it. And he was at his -writing-table again early in the morning, arranging his papers so as to -make the copying easy, with much question in his own mind whether his -new <i>protegé</i> would really come, whether he would prove capable of such -work. John thought that in all likelihood the man would not come, and -was giving up with a regret which seemed even to himself quite uncalled -for—regret as for a pet project which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> gave up most unwillingly—the -plan of active charity which he had so hastily adopted—when his visitor -of the previous day suddenly appeared. He came alone, trim and -well-brushed, but with a shaking hand, and eyes which were red and -muddy, and made his excuses with a deprecating smile.</p> - -<p>‘I’m late,’ he said, ‘you must make allowance for bad habits. And I’ve -had to get up as other people pleased for so long that I can’t help -indulging a little now; but I work quickly and I’ll soon make it up.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no hurry,’ said John: which was not exactly true, nor what he -would have said to anyone else. And they worked together for the greater -part of the day, not talking much, though John’s secretary now and then -paused, leaned back upon his chair, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and -seemed on the eve of resuming the philosophisings of last night. But -John was too busy to take any notice, and his companion presently would -fall to work again.</p> - -<p>He had no special knowledge of John’s subject, but he had a great deal -of intelligence, and asked reasonable questions and led John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> into -explanations which were very useful to him, showing him how to recommend -and elucidate his plan. They had their chop together in the middle of -the day, and John found his companion more and more agreeable. There was -something natural, familiar, in the relations into which they fell. John -was a young man not too easy, as his fellow-workers knew, to ‘get on -with.’ He was very exacting in the matter of attention to work. He was -apt to conceive a contempt for the people who did not care for what they -were employed on—and the young men who did just what they were -compelled to do and no more, found no favour in his eyes. But even those -periods of idling which occurred in the work of this grey-haired -secretary did not produce that effect upon his young employer.</p> - -<p>A gentleness of feeling, little habitual to him, stole over John. He did -not feel critical—he felt friendly, oh, so compassionate, afraid even -to think anything that could add a pang to this man, so forlorn and -miserable, denuded of all things. The less he made of his own -wretchedness the more profoundly did John feel it. He kept thinking, as -he gave him his instructions,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> of all that this clear intelligence must -have suffered shut up in the strait routine of a prison. He could not -copy a page or make a calculation without some little running-over of -remark, something that brought a smile, that betrayed the lively play of -a mind unsubdued by the most tremendous burdens, by all the heavy and -horrible experiences of such a life. How could he have borne that, day -by day and year by year? A sort of awe, and almost reverence of the -tragedy that this humorous, light-hearted being must have lived through, -rose in John’s musing soul.</p> - -<p>It was not until they were finishing their little meal together that the -absence of one very natural and usual explanation between them struck -the young man.</p> - -<p>‘By-the-by,’ John said, suddenly—he was making corrections in one of -the papers and did not raise his head—‘By-the-by, it seems very absurd. -I don’t even know your name.’</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s silence, and then John looked up. He found his -companion’s eyes fixed upon him with his usual half smile of -observation, and dubious humorous uncertainty. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> John met his eye he -changed his position a little with a momentary laugh.</p> - -<p>‘I have been so long out of the habit of thinking a name necessary,’ he -said. ‘My name is——’ He paused again, and once more looked at John, -in whose face there was no suspicious anxiety, but only a friendly -alertness of interest. Something mischievous and mirthful lighted up in -the stranger’s eyes: ‘My name is—March,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘And mine is Sandford,’ replied John.</p> - -<p>The mischievous light went out of the other’s look. His face grew -serious; he nodded his head two or three times with gravity.</p> - -<p>‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It is a name that I have had a great deal to do -with in my life; but I don’t suppose you ever heard of me.’</p> - -<p>John shook his head. He cleared away with his own hand the last remnants -of the luncheon, over which enough time had been expended.</p> - -<p>‘Now we’ll get to work again if you are ready,’ he said.</p> - -<p>He knew nothing of any March. He was not aware that he had ever heard -the name. And then they set to work again together<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> pleasantly, -cheerfully; John finding something inspiriting in the companionship for -all the rest of the afternoon.</p> - -<p>Next day the young man presented himself at the office, though his leave -was not yet exhausted. But he did not go naturally to his own desk, to -look if there were letters or special orders for him. He marched -straight to the door within which the younger partner, the son of the -Mr. Barrett who had received him into the office, and whom John had -always found severe, had his throne. The younger Mr. Barrett was far -more favourable to the young man than his father had ever been, and -never spoke to him of the hospital, or the duty which lay upon him to -repay his mother for her kindness, which was what the elder invariably -did. It is not a subject which is agreeable even to the most dutiful of -children. Repay your mother for all that she has done for you! Who could -bear that odious advice? John was not angelic enough to be pleased by -it. And when he had the choice it was to Mr. William Barrett that he -betook himself. He found that personage in a very cheerful condition, -and delighted to see him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘You are the very man I want. You must go off at once to those works at -Hampstead. They’ve got into a mess, and no one can clear it up better -than you. I was just wishing for you. But your leave is not out: how is -it you’ve come back before your time?’</p> - -<p>Then John explained that he had been privately working for a long time -at a scheme of which his mind was very full. And he gave on the spot an -account of it which made the junior partner open his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘If you’ve done that, my boy, you’ve made your fortune, and ours too,’ -he said, listening with great attention to John’s exposition.</p> - -<p>‘That’s what I hope, sir,’ the young man said, with all the confidence -of youth.</p> - -<p>Mr. William Barrett listened half-bantering, half-believing. To think of -so young a man having hit upon an expedient which had baffled so many -older brains, seemed to him half-incredible, and he laughed and rubbed -his hands even while he seriously inclined to hear all the details of -the scheme.</p> - -<p>‘It all depends upon whether it’s practicable,’ he said. ‘Do you know -the lie of the country?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> Have you calculated the cost even of what will -be required as a basis of operations?’</p> - -<p>‘I have calculated everything,’ said John, with that enthusiastic -conviction which is so contagious. Mr. Barrett looked in his face with a -laugh, half-sceptical, half-sympathetic.</p> - -<p>‘I like young men to think well of their own schemes,’ he said; ‘and I -like them to plan big works even if they should never come to anything. -Show me your papers——’</p> - -<p>‘I am having them copied out. I am making the statement as clear as -possible. I will bring them as soon as they are ready.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, they are not ready, then!’ Mr. Barrett cooled perceptibly. ‘You -should not have said anything about it until they were in a state to be -inspected—copying was not necessary—the rough notes are what I should -have liked to see. You had better go off to Hampstead at once, and when -you have finished that job you can bring me your plan, if it is ready -then. There may be something in it—one can never tell.’</p> - -<p>John felt that this was a very summary dismissal after the gleam of -favour with which he had been regarded. He felt as if the plan which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> -had been so much in the forefront of his imagination had been cast all -at once into the background, which discouraged him for the moment: all -the more that his own judgment agreed with what his chief said, and he -felt now that it would have been better to place the scribbles of his -rising invention before the experienced eyes which could see at a glance -what was practicable in them, instead of the fair copy written out in a -strange hand, which his impulse in favour of poor March had alone moved -him to make. However, he set out at once for Hampstead, according to his -orders, and there forgot his discouragement, and even, for a time, his -great scheme, in the counter excitement of bringing order out of chaos. -There is a certain satisfaction in finding that a piece of business has -been horribly mismanaged, when one feels that one can put it all right. -For some days John was fully occupied with this work, with scarcely time -even to think of anything else. He got home at night late and very tired -with his day’s work, feeling able for little more than to give a glance -at what March had been doing and to feel the comfort and satisfaction -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> having an amanuensis who arranged his papers so carefully and copied -so neatly, in a handwriting, which, John remarked with surprise, was -very like though better than his own. Everything was carefully arranged -in the most orderly manner, the scraps of calculation in their proper -succession, and the work going on, though slowly. It was indeed going on -very slowly, and John never found his secretary at work when he -returned: but he reflected that in all likelihood that philosopher, left -to himself, took things easily; and there was no hurry: and he was too -tired in the evenings when he came back from his work to give his full -attention to anything else.</p> - -<p>The Hampstead work occupied him for about a fortnight. On the morning -after its completion he got up with a new start of energy, and with a -revival of interest and enthusiasm betook himself to his great scheme. -To his surprise, however, he found the little collection of -calculations, sketches, and estimates, in the very same condition in -which he had placed them in March’s hand, all very neatly arranged and -in proper order, but without a trace of the fair copy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> for which he had -given instructions. John was exceedingly startled, and did not know what -to think. Had it not been done at all? had the patience of the -unfortunate amanuensis or his self-control given way, and the work been -thrown up? But then John had seen a considerable part of it completed. -He had even, as has been said, looked over a portion of it, and remarked -that March’s handwriting was like his own. What could this mean? An -alarm which he felt to be absurd, at least excessive, most likely -altogether uncalled-for, took possession of him. He called his landlady -and asked her if Mr. March had said anything, if he had left any -message, if he had been at work the day before? John’s landlady was the -impersonation of respectability: she did not lose her temper or break -forth into abuse. But her air was that of an offended woman, and she -immediately replied that she had been about to speak to him on the -subject, that she could not have such persons in her house.</p> - -<p>‘Persons?’ John said, with surprise, and then Mrs. Short, keeping her -composure with difficulty, informed him that she had nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> to say -against ‘the old gentleman,’ who she allowed was pleasant-spoken, and -looked respectable, though she much feared he liked a drop: but that the -other was the one as she could not abide.</p> - -<p>John learned with some annoyance that Joe had come daily while he was -absent, and had made his way into the room where March sat at work—but -that for the last two days neither of them had appeared at all.</p> - -<p>‘And very glad I was: for I couldn’t have stood it another day, not -another day, Mr. Sandford, much as I think on you, sir. A fellow like -that slouching in as if the place belonged to him: and who could tell -what he mightn’t bring—disease, or vermin, or dirt: dirt sure enough, -for Jane did nothing but sweep up after him. Glad was I when they both -went away.’</p> - -<p>‘The day before yesterday?’ said John, ‘and no message, not a word to -explain.’</p> - -<p>‘The old gentleman came in the morning. He had the papers out as usual, -and was a-going to begin: and then the other one came for him, and they -both went away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>All John’s questions could elicit nothing more than this. He said to -himself that March must have taken something to finish at home; that -perhaps he might have fallen into one of those paroxysms of drinking -with which John was acquainted among his men. He was angry with himself -for the apprehensions that stole into his mind. If this man had not been -what he was—a convict, a man without a character, John said to himself, -it never would have occurred to him to fear. Joe, indeed, was not to be -trusted with spoons or even great-coats or anything portable; but what -could Joe know about the value of his papers? It was ridiculous to think -of any theft. No doubt the easiest explanation was the true one—that -March had taken the papers to complete at home. With this he tried to -content himself, and, with the idea that after all he was but doing what -he ought to have done at once, gathered up his own rough notes and -calculations, and set out for the office. There seemed a slight -excitement there at his appearance, or so he thought. The vague -uneasiness in his own mind no doubt gave a certain aspect of curiosity -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> commotion to the clerks in the outer office, who looked up at him -as he came in.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Barrett, I think, was looking for you, Sandford. You will find them -both in Mr. William’s room,’ said the principal of the outer office.</p> - -<p>John walked in, not without a growing sense of trouble to come; he did -not know what it might be, but he felt it in the air. Some thunder-bolt -or other was about to fall upon his unaccustomed head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>MR. SANDFORD’S SECRETARY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> was what had happened in the meantime, while John had been about -his other work. The man whom he had so readily taken up, knowing nothing -of him except harm, had begun with quite an <i>élan</i> of sympathetic -industry while the young man was with him. It was his nature so to do; -had John remained with him all the time he would have continued so, with -a generous desire to second and carry out all his wishes. But, when left -alone to his work, his interest flagged. He settled everything in the -most neat and orderly way, for he was always orderly, always ready to -arrange and keep a certain symmetry in his surroundings, a kind of -gratifying occupation which was not work.</p> - -<p>When he had spread out his ink, his pens, his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> pencil, and ruler, his -blotting-paper, and all the scraps he had to copy on the table before -him, he began his work, and wrote on for half-an-hour at least with the -air of a man who knew no better pleasure. But when he got to the -conclusion of the page he laid down his pen and began to think. He had a -quickly working mind, readily moved by any suggestion, taking up a cue -and running on from it in lines of thought which amused him sometimes -with a certain appearance of originality, enough to impose upon any -chance listener, and always upon himself. This led him into mental -amplifications of the text that was before him, and gave him a certain -pleasure at first even in his work of copying. He thought of two or -three things which he felt would be great improvements upon John’s plan -as he went on, and at the end of each page he mused for an hour or so -upon that and a hundred other subjects into which it ran. And then he -roused up suddenly and turned the leaf and wrote a few sentences more; -and then it occurred to him that it was time to eat something, as his -breakfast had been a very light one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span></p> - -<p>He went out accordingly, having still money in his pocket, to get his -luncheon, and lingered a little to wash down the hot and savoury sausage -which was agreeable to a stomach not in very good order, and met Joe, -who was hanging about on the outlook for his mate. Joe returned with him -to pilot his friend safely through the little-known streets to the room -in which John, in his simplicity, had believed his protégé would be safe -from all such influences, and went in with him to bear him company. -Then, after March had rested from these fatigues, his comrade aroused -his interest not unskilfully.</p> - -<p>‘I ’eard him say,’ remarked Joe, ‘as them papers would make ‘is fortin.’</p> - -<p>‘So he thinks, poor lad; and I hope they may, for he’s a good lad and -has been very kind to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Droll to think you can make a fortin’ by writin’ on bits of paper,’ -said Joe, touching John’s notes with his grimy hand (and indeed that -opinion is shared by many people), ‘is it story-books, or wot is it!’</p> - -<p>Mr. March laughed with genuine enjoyment, leaning back in his chair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘No, you ignoramus,’ he said; ‘don’t you see its figures, calculations, -things you can understand still less than story-books? It’s a great -scheme, Joe, my fine fellow, for turning the water out of the river and -making the floods into dry land.’</p> - -<p>‘You’re laughing at a poor fellow, guv’nor. I aint no scholard. And -what’ll be done with the land? Will he farm it, or build on’t, or -what’ll he do with it, when he’s got it? Doin’ away with the river would -be little good, as I can see.’</p> - -<p>‘Joe, you are a donkey,’ said his mate; ‘don’t you know there’s floods -every year, and water in the houses, and water on the fields, and -destruction everywhere. And this young fellow is an engineer, and means -to put a stop to that.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ said Joe. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘It ’ud be the landlords -o’ them places that would get the profit o’ that.’</p> - -<p>‘Landlords and everybody; it would be a great advantage to the country, -and would make our young man’s fortune, as he says.’</p> - -<p>‘If I was you,’ said Joe, ‘I’d go on ahead with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> that. If it’s you -that’s writing it out, you’ll go shares in the profits, I reckon.’</p> - -<p>March resumed his pen at this incentive and began once more to write.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ he said, shaking his hand, ‘not shares; for I have really nothing -to do with it except to copy it; but I’ve no doubt he will pay me, and -pretty well too——’</p> - -<p>‘I daresay,’ said Joe, ‘if he’s that sort of a cove for finding out -things, as he has a many more in his head as well as this.’</p> - -<p>‘I should think most likely,’ said the elder man. ‘He’s got a good -brain—and plenty of energy, and fond of his profession—which is a good -thing, Joe. Neither you nor I have been fond of our professions, -unfortunately for us.’</p> - -<p>‘I ain’t got one—not even a trade. I was brought up to hang about, and -do odd jobs. I never had no justice in my bringing-up.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, that was a pity,’ said his companion; ‘perhaps, however, it -wouldn’t have mattered much. Hanging about is the trade of a great many -men, Joe, more successful men than you and me.’</p> - -<p>‘It depends on the nature o’ the jobs you gets,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span>’ Joe remarked. He drew -his chair a little nearer to the writing-table. ‘I’d get on with that -there work, guv’nor, if I was you,’ he said, with a nudge; ‘if there’s a -fortune in it for one, there might be a fortune in it for two.’</p> - -<p>March looked at him hazily with an afternoon look of drowsiness and -languor; but he was tickled by the advice thus given, and resumed the -so-easily-relinquished work. Joe, so to speak, sat or stood over him all -day, encouraging and stimulating. The work went on slowly, as John -remarked in the evening, but still it went on. The next day and the next -passed in much the same way, except that Joe, ‘hanging about’ as usual, -managed to meet his comrade on his way to instead of after luncheon, and -so secured a clear head and less drowsy condition for the afternoon. At -last, chiefly by the exertions of this very unusual overseer, the work -was concluded, and then Joe spoke his mind more clearly.</p> - -<p>‘It’s you as has had most part of this work, guv’nor, but it’s he as’ll -get the pay.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s the way of this world, Joe,’ said his comrade. But he added -after a moment, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> magnanimous air, ‘Not in this case, however—for -I have only copied, I have not invented—though I may have given a few -hints.’</p> - -<p>He had given these hints only to himself, various suggestions having -occurred to him in the course of his copying, which in some instances he -had inserted with the wildest ignorance of practicability in his text.</p> - -<p>‘I make no doubt,’ said Joe, ‘as the best of it come out o’ your head, -guv’nor. You was always the one as had the brains; and it’s you as -should profit by it. A young fellow like that’s got no occasion to make -his fortune at his age. It ain’t good for him. When you make your -fortune like that right off, it puffs you up with pride, and it stops -you doing more. Ain’t that true? Why, you knows it is;—chaplains and -parsons and all that sort say so. It’s good for you to be kep’ down when -you’re young. It would be a thousand pities to spoil a young fellow’s -life like, with getting everything that he wants first thing afore he’s -had any experience. That’s what has always been said to me.’</p> - -<p>‘There is some truth in it, no doubt,’ said March.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘A deal of truth, guv’nor. I suppose, now, you’ve just got to take them -papers to somebody as deals in things like that, and get money for ’em -down on the nail?’</p> - -<p>‘He will take them to some great engineering firm,’ said the other. ‘And -probably he would not part with them for a sum “down on the nail,” as -you say. Such a scheme as this he’d be sure to have some share in it. He -would superintend the carrying out of his plans, if you understand that. -It might be years of work for him, and the most excellent beginning. I -should think he deserved it, too,’ said John’s amanuensis, looking round -approvingly, ‘for there is every evidence that he’s a fine fellow, and I -know he has been very kind to me.’</p> - -<p>‘And you might be very kind to ’im, in that way,’ said Joe.</p> - -<p>‘I could be—kind to <i>him</i>? I don’t think I’ve very much in my power one -way or other,’ said March, with a smile and a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Guv’nor,’ said Joe, ‘you never was one as took things upon you. Give up -to other folks, that was allays what you would do. But what’s the good? -You don’t get no thanks for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> it. If I was in your place—as I’m a -donkey, and good for nothing, but you ain’t, and could do a lot if you -liked—I know what I’d do.’</p> - -<p>March smiled benignantly enough upon the poor dependent, whose -flatteries were not unpleasant to him.</p> - -<p>‘And what would you do, if you were me, which is not a very likely -change?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘No, it ain’t likely. Them as is born asses, dies asses—and t’other way -too. It ain’t for me to tell a clever man like you, and that has got a -fine education, and born a gentleman.’</p> - -<p>‘Alas!’ said March, shaking his head; ‘alas! it hasn’t come to much, has -it? Your mate, my poor fellow, and one without a friend but you, or a -chance in the wide world——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t say that, guv’nor. Here’s a chance, if I ain’t more of a born ass -than ever I thought—a chance for a fortune, and for doing the young -fellow a good turn. How’s he, at his age, to show up a big thing like -this? There’s nobody as would believe it of him. They’d say, “Oh, get -along, you boy.” They’d never take him in earnest at all.’</p> - -<p>‘I do him a good turn! I, a broken man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> without character or anything; -without a friend! and he a fine, respectable young fellow, well thought -of, and clever, and knowing more than I ever knew at my best. That’s -nonsense, Joe.’</p> - -<p>‘Not if you’ll think a bit, guv’nor; I hear him say them papers is my -fortune—and then I hears him ’eave a sigh. He’s not one of the pushing -ones, he isn’t. He knows as they’re worth a deal, but he hasn’t the face -to say “Look here, you give me so much for this.” Guv’nor, I know you’re -a man as will do a deal for a friend. Why don’t you take ’em just as -they lies there, and take ’em to some person as deals in that sort of -thing, and just up and ask ’em what’ll they give for this? “There’s a -young un,” says you, “as understands everything about it and is just the -man to work ’em out.” If I were in your place, guv’nor, that’s what I -would do.’</p> - -<p>‘But, my good fellow,’ said March, ‘those papers belong to the young man -here, not to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Guv’nor,’ said Joe, ‘I don’t doubt as the best that’s in that long -story as you’re writing out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> there comes out o’ your own ’ead. It stands -to reason as you know more about it than a young feller like ’im.’</p> - -<p>The philosophical gull, who never learned wisdom, was touched by this in -the most assailable point.</p> - -<p>‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘Joe,—though how you’ve found it out I can’t -tell—that I have carried out a suggestion or two, and put in something -that seemed to me the logical consequence of what he said. But nothing -practical, for I don’t understand the practical part. And how does that -sort of thing give me any real claim?’</p> - -<p>‘Guv’nor,’ repeated Joe, ‘you needn’t tell me. I know you, and how -you’re always giving up to other folks. It’s half yours and more, I’ll -be bound. And the best you could do for the young ’un is just what I -tells you. I’m practical, I am. If it was anything in my way, I’d do it -like a shot; but it ain’t in my way. The outsides o’ things has a deal -of power in this world. You in your fine respectable suit, you can go -where you please like a prince. But me, it’s “Be off with you—get along -with you;” they won’t say nothing of that sort to you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> And you’ll just -make the young man’s fortune, that’s what you’ll do. Say as he’s the -very one to look after the works and knows all the practical part. They -ought to settle something handsome on you at once as your share and take -him on as foreman, or whatever it is; and in that way you’d both get the -best of it and all done well.’</p> - -<p>The convict philosopher shook his head. He rose up from the table and -put the papers away. He admired the neatness of his own manuscript -extremely, and he was of opinion that he had done John a great deal of -good by the suggestions which he had worked out and the additions which -he had made. It was possible that Joe might be right, and that the best -thing he could do for his young employer was what the poor faithful -fellow had suggested. He had himself a great admiration, after having -been deprived of it so long, of his respectable suit and appearance, and -there was a great deal of plausibility, he thought, in what the man -said. But it was still clear to him that John might not think so. He was -not very rigid himself upon any point of morals, after his long practice -in thinking every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span>thing over, and blurring out to his own satisfaction -the lines of demarcation between right and wrong; but he could -understand that the young man, not having his experience, might think -otherwise; and he had even a sympathy for his want of philosophical -power in that respect. So he put everything aside very tidily, and put -his hand upon Joe’s arm and drew him away, shaking his head, but not -angry at the good fellow’s insistence. There was something in it—and it -might doubtless be under certain circumstances the most kind thing that -could be done for the young man. Still there was the difficulty that the -young man might not see it in that light. And Mr. March accordingly put -up the papers, and taking Joe by the arm, with a benevolent smile and a -shake of the head, led him away.</p> - -<p>It has been said that John’s rooms were in Westminster, not far from -Great George Street, where the offices of Messrs. Barrett were, and -where, as the reader needs not to be informed, various other engineers’ -offices are to be seen. March’s eye caught the names involuntarily as he -passed by. It was not that he was trifling with temptation, for he did -not consider Joe’s sugges<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span>tion as temptation. He was only turning over -the possibilities in his mind, and merely as a matter of amusement, an -exercise of fancy, just as he might have counted how many white horses -passed in the street, or which windows were curtained and which not, he -read over to himself the names on the doors. Messrs. Barrett’s was one -which he weighed but afterwards rejected, as not liking the sound of it. -Another quite near had a name that pleased him better—Messrs. Spender -and Diggs. What a ludicrous combination! He laughed to himself at it, as -it caught his eye. Spender and Diggs—it was highly suggestive, which -was a thing dear to his mind at ease. It clung to his memory. He turned -it round the other way to see how it would sound. Diggs and Spender: -that was still more absurd.</p> - -<p>And all the time Joe’s voice was running on with arguments, the form of -which, simple and subtle and couched in that language of the rough which -is always more or less picturesque, amused his companion much. Joe had -penetrated sufficiently into the mind of his mate to know how to address -him. And that mind began to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> work upon the matter, with the amusing -addition of the name of Spender and Diggs thrown in, and a great deal of -pleasurable occupation in a question entirely characteristic and full of -the difficulties he loved.</p> - -<p>The result was that March appeared in the morning as the landlady had -said, and spent a short time, but only a very short time in John’s -sitting-room. The copy was completed, carefully folded up, and put in a -large envelope. All John’s notes, the originals, were scrupulously left -in their place, and in perfect order. For in some points his conscience -was of scrupulous nicety, and John’s notes were certainly his own and -not to be tampered with. As he was going out with the large envelope in -his breast pocket, John’s landlady appeared with the remonstrance which -had been on her lips for some days.</p> - -<p>‘You, sir, I’ve got no objections—a gentleman that’s pleasant spoken -and respectable even if he ain’t my lodger, but only a friend, that’s a -different thing:—— but your—— that man——’</p> - -<p>‘My servant?’ said March, with a quick sense of the comicality of the -situation.</p> - -<p>‘Well, sir,’ said the woman, with hesitation;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> ‘I wouldn’t keep on a man -like that in my service if I was you.’</p> - -<p>‘He is not as bad as he seems,’ the philosopher said, with a twinkle in -his eye, ‘but I foresaw your objections, and you shall never see him -more.’</p> - -<p>‘If that’s so, of course, there isn’t another word to be said.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s so; you may calculate upon it as a certainty,’ the pleasant -spoken gentleman said; and with a wave of his hand and a chuckle of -enjoyment he went away.</p> - -<p>The events thus described will explain the scene which John to his -consternation and amazement encountered when he stepped into Mr. -William’s room at the office, and found himself confronted by both -members of the firm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>JOHN ON HIS TRIAL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Both</span> the partners were together in Mr. William’s room. They had been -having some sort of a consultation, it was evident, and both looked very -grave. When John walked in at his ease, though a little anxious, they -both turned round upon him with very serious faces—the younger man with -a grieved air, the elder one rigid and solemn, like a judge before whom -a criminal has appeared, whose conviction has been pre-accomplished, and -who has come up for judgment. Mr. William Barrett had the air of hoping -that some more evidence might be discovered which would possibly -exonerate the accused, but his father’s face showed no such hope. On the -contrary, something of the ‘I always knew how it would be’ was in his -look, as he turned sharply round at the opening of the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span></p> - -<p>John was greatly surprised: but still more indignant at this reception -of him. He walked up to the table at which Mr. Barrett sat. Mr. William -stood with his back to the dusty fireplace close by. Neither of them -spoke, but looked at him with that overwhelming effect of silent -observation which makes the steadiest footstep falter, and conveys -embarrassment and awkwardness into the most self-controlled being. John -said ‘Good-morning,’ and they both acknowledged it: Mr. William by an -abrupt nod, his father by the most solemn inclination of his head. The -young man did not know what to say. He stood and looked at them, -wondering, indignant, taking his little packet of papers out of his -pocket. What had he done to be so regarded?—or had he perhaps come into -the midst of some consultation about other matters with which they were -pre-occupied? He said,</p> - -<p>‘Is there anything the matter?’ at last, saying to himself that it was -impossible he could be the cause of such concentrated solemnity, and -looking at the younger partner with a half smile.</p> - -<p>‘There is a great deal the matter,’ said Mr. Barrett.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said his son; ‘it’s rather a grave business, Sandford. I don’t -see it in quite the same light as my father. Still, it’s at least a -great want of confidence, a strange slur upon us, who, so far as I know, -have nothing to reproach ourselves with in respect to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly not, sir,’ said John: ‘you have always been very kind and -given me every opportunity; but I hope on my part I have not done -anything to make you suppose I am ungrateful, or have not appreciated my -advantages.’</p> - -<p>‘We have nothing to complain of so far as the works are concerned. I -think, sir, I may say that?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a point on which I should not like to commit myself,’ said the -senior partner. ‘These works at Hampstead, so far as I hear——’</p> - -<p>‘They went wrong when he was away. He can’t be blamed for that: he came -back before his time and went over at once, and made every thing -shipshape again. He can’t be blamed for that. Whatever went wrong was -after his leave began.’</p> - -<p>‘An engineer,’ said the elder gentleman, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> his rigid way, ‘who means -to do justice to his profession, doesn’t want leave. The works are his -first interest—he has no occasion to go away to amuse himself.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, come, father! you’re making that a fault which is no fault—and we -have a ground of offence which is real enough. Sandford, you came here -the other day and told me of a scheme you had for draining the Thames -valley. You may say I was disposed to pooh-pooh it a bit; but I didn’t -say more than one does naturally with a young fellow’s first ideas, -which are always so magnificent. Do you think there was a reason in -anything I said for transferring the papers as you’ve done to another -firm?’</p> - -<p>‘I transfer them to another firm?’ cried John, ‘you must be dreaming. I -have them here.’</p> - -<p>‘You have them there? Then what do Spender and Diggs mean by spreading -it abroad that they have had such a scheme sent to them by one of the -pupils in our office, but which we had not enterprise to take up?’</p> - -<p>‘Spender and Diggs!’ John was so well acquainted with the name of the -rival firm that it raised no sense of humour in his mind: but some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>thing -quite different, that sense of rivalry which is so strong between the -pupils and partisans of different schools. He made a little pause, -staring at his younger employer. And then he said, ‘I don’t know the -least in the world what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no ambiguity at all about my meaning. I say that Spender and -Diggs are putting it about everywhere that a great scheme, worked out by -one of our pupils, for the draining of the Thames valley, has been -offered to them.’</p> - -<p>John’s countenance grew pale with horror and dismay. He cried out, -sharply,</p> - -<p>‘Good heavens! Why, it cannot be Horrocks or Green?’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t add slander to your other sins,’ said Mr. Barrett, severely, ‘or -endeavour to take away the character of young men who are quite -incapable——’</p> - -<p>‘So they are,’ said John, in all good faith, ‘quite incapable. That is -true, sir; but I could not help thinking for a moment that I might have -left some of my papers about, and that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> might have picked them -up—but you’re right, sir; they couldn’t do it—that is a great relief -to my mind.’</p> - -<p>The young man was so undisguisedly relieved and so perfectly -straightforward in the whole matter, that William Barrett began to -doubt. He cast a glance at his father, who, however, sat rigid and -showed no relenting.</p> - -<p>‘Sandford,’ said the younger man, ‘you seem to speak very fair; but -there’s this fact against you—no one supposed it was anyone’s scheme -but yours; you are the only man in our office capable of anything of the -sort; we all know that. And it’s no crime; but it is a horrid thing all -the same—a caddish, currish sort of thing—to abandon the people who -have trained you and done you every justice, and carry what I have no -doubt you believe would be profitable work to another house.’</p> - -<p>‘I—carry work to another house! It is quite impossible that you should -believe that of me. I might have thought it if you had said I had killed -somebody,’ said John, with a faint smile of ridicule, ‘for that’s a -thing that might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> be done in a moment’s passion—but carry work to -another house! You cannot believe that of me.’</p> - -<p>‘What has believing to do with it,’ said Mr. Barrett, ‘when there are -the facts that can be proved? Don’t lose time bandying words, Will. -Sandford must see that after this there can be no further connection -between us. He knows, of course, that his place at Spender and Diggs’ is -safe enough. Let him have what is owing to him and let him go. I took -him without a premium for his mother’s sake, and for the same -reason—for Mrs. Sandford is a very worthy woman—I’ve given him every -advantage, although I expected something of this sort all along.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should something of this sort have been expected from me? What have -I done? I have done no wrong—I have all my papers in my pocket. You -said you would rather have the rough notes. Here they are, every one,’ -cried John, taking out the papers from the envelope and throwing them -done on the table; ‘here are all the calculations, diagrams, and -drawings, and all. And now, Mr. Barrett, there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> is the question to -settle which you’ve just mentioned, which you raised long ago,’ said the -young man, with a flush of pride and anger. ‘That wretched premium! It -shall be paid before the banks close to-day. That, at all events, I can -settle at once. You have flung it in my teeth more than once when I was -powerless. Now I have it in my own hands. Your premium, of which you -have thought so much, shall be paid to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘Stop there, Sandford,’ said the younger partner. ‘Father, I beg don’t -say anything more—let us understand the more important matter first. -You say you have brought us all your papers here. And yet I am informed -from Spender and Diggs that they have your scheme, all carefully written -out and elaborated——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ cried John, with a keen and quick sensation as if he had been -startled and could not draw his breath.</p> - -<p>‘Of course the information doesn’t come direct from them. They wouldn’t -be likely to do anything so friendly. Prince heard all about it from one -of their men. We can have him in, and you can ask him any questions you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> -like. Even if I hadn’t known by what you told me, I should have felt -sure it was you who had done it,’ said William Barrett, secure in his -own command of the situation. Then he added to the man who answered his -bell, ‘Ask Mr. Prince to step this way.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Prince had stepped that way; he had walked up to Mr. Barrett’s -table, in his precise little manner, smiling ingratiatingly when he met -his master’s eye, and had told his story before John said anything more. -He stood a little behind Prince, so startled that he could scarcely -understand what was being said, though he heard it all—recalling his -recollections and making it plain to himself what had happened. He had -not been in the habit of doing rash things, nor was he one who gave his -confidence and trust easily; but as he stood in the office, hearing the -clerk’s glib story—and feeling himself like the spectator of the -strangest little scene on the stage, instead of standing, so to speak, -on his trial, and listening to the evidence of the principal witness -against him—a rush of suggestions was going through John’s head.</p> - -<p>The extraordinary fact which never had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> seemed at all strange to him -before, that he had taken into his house and into his confidence a man -of whom he knew nothing, except that he was a returned convict, showed -itself all at once to him in the clearest light. Even in his suddenly -awakened consciousness of what had happened, he felt that to call the -man whom he had thus trusted a returned convict, hurt himself as if it -had been a stab. It was on this ground he had made acquaintance with -him, because he was a man who had been punished for crime, and might -fall into crime again if he were not bolstered up by friendly help and -saved from temptation. This was what John had attempted to do, and, lo, -here was the result. He came gradually to himself through the hot and -painful confusion of this critical moment, and put a few questions to -the clerk which left no doubt on the subject. When Mr. Prince’s -examination was over, William Barrett turned to the young man, his -natural good nature and friendliness modified by the triumph of having -gained a complete victory.</p> - -<p>‘Sandford,’ he said, ‘I don’t pretend to understand your conduct one way -or another. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> came back from your holiday before your time, to tell -me of this scheme of yours. I neither said nor did anything to -discourage you, more than one does naturally to a young man. You were -engaged in our work, and bred up in our office: that should have been -reason enough against going to any other firm.’</p> - -<p>‘It is a thing which never entered into my mind.’</p> - -<p>‘But it did into your actions, apparently,’ said the junior partner, -with a not unnatural sneer.</p> - -<p>‘It is what I have expected all along,’ said Mr. Barrett, piously -folding his hands. ‘It is what his mother expected, an excellent, -much-tried woman, for whose sake——’</p> - -<p>‘Prince, you may go,’ said William Barrett, ‘and, for heaven’s sake, -father, stick to the question. Don’t bring in other things which have -nothing to do with it.’</p> - -<p>John had a great struggle with himself. The foregone conclusion against -him with which he had so often been confronted was the one thing which -overcame his good sense and self-control. Ever since his grandfather’s -death it had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> intolerable to him, and it was all he could do to -suppress the boiling-over of passionate resistance to this systematic -injustice; but with a great effort he restrained himself. He stopped the -departing witness with a wave of his hand.</p> - -<p>‘Let Prince stay,’ he said, in a choked voice. ‘I think I perceive how -all this has occurred. Look here, did your informant say who took the -papers to Spender and Diggs? Did he say it was I?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Prince, ‘that he knew you.’</p> - -<p>‘I have not the least doubt that you asked him who it was. If he did not -know me, he must at least have known something about me. Did he say it -was I?’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said the witness, somewhat unwillingly, ‘he didn’t know who it -was. He said he thought it was an elderly man: but there are many people -always coming and going about the office, and he couldn’t be sure.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think it likely,’ said John, ‘that I could have gone to Spender -and Diggs’ office without being recognised?’</p> - -<p>‘Sandford, this is all quite unnecessary,’ said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> William Barrett. ‘I did -not accuse you of going to Spender and Diggs’ office. You might have -employed any agent; such a thing is not necessarily—indeed, it’s not at -all likely to be done by the principal himself.’</p> - -<p>‘Then this is what I’m accused of,’ said John. ‘I came and told you of -my scheme, for as much as it’s worth. You did discourage me, Mr. -William, but good naturedly, telling me to go to Hampstead in the first -place. I obeyed you, and finished that work last night. This morning I -come to you with my papers in my pocket, ready to submit them to you -according to your own instructions; and I am met with accusations like a -criminal. Is it likely that between hands I should have gone to Spender -and Diggs? Why should I come here now with my original papers if I had -in the meanwhile sent a copy elsewhere? Do Spender and Diggs say they -refused them? What are they supposed to have said? Why am I supposed to -have come, the first moment I was free, back here——?’</p> - -<p>‘Were you told they were refused?’</p> - -<p>‘No, sir,’ said Prince. ‘On the contrary, they were taken into -consideration, and thought to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> have something in them. That was what was -reported to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, then,’ said John, ‘should I come back here?’</p> - -<p>There was a momentary pause; and then William Barrett broke forth again.</p> - -<p>‘What’s the use of talking of motives and reasons and why you did it? -Evidently you did do it, and there’s an end of the matter.’</p> - -<p>‘And of our connection,’ said his father. ‘A young man that’s so false -to his employers can have no more to do in our works or our office.’</p> - -<p>‘As you please, sir,’ said John. He had made a pause of indignation, -staring at his accusers, dumb with the passion of a thousand things he -had to say—but what was the use? He shut his lips close, growing -crimson with the strong effort of self-restraint. ‘I am sorry this -should be the end,’ he said, controlling himself desperately, ‘but, of -course, if that is your opinion, I have nothing to say. Good-bye, sir,’ -the young man cried, unable to keep back that Parthian arrow, ‘it must -be a pleasure to you that I have justified your certainty, and gone to -the bad at the end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Sandford!’ said William Barrett, as John hurried out; but the young man -was too much excited to pay any attention. The junior partner followed -him to the door of the office calling after him, ‘Sandford—I say -Sandford—Sandford!’</p> - -<p>But John paid no attention. He rushed downstairs two or three steps at a -time, and over the threshold which he had crossed so often with the -familiarity of every day life. His feet spurned it now. He seemed to be -shaking the dust from him as the rejected messengers were to do in the -Gospel. No better servant had ever been, no more dutiful pupil, and he -was conscious of this. He had never been without a thought indeed of -advancement in his own person, of carrying out a work of his own: but -all his knowledge, the knowledge acquired out of their limits in the -privacy of his own self-denying and studious youth, had been at the -service of his masters and teachers unreservedly at all times. He had -never thought of sparing himself, of doing as little as was possible, -which was the way of many of his fellow-pupils. He had done always as -much as was in him, freely and with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> devotion. And as the climax of so -many faithful years, he had brought to them this first fruits of his -maturing thought, this plan so long cogitated, which had been to him -what a poem is to a poet—the work in which all his faculties, not only -of calculation and practical reason, but of thought and imagination had -been concentrated. It was to be the climax, and now it was the end. -Instead of sharing his honours with them and bringing them substantial -profit, as he intended, he was sent forth with shame as a traitor, a -false servant, a disloyal man. John’s heart burned within him as, -holding his head high, and spurning the very ground, he marched out of -that familiar place.</p> - -<p>The sting of injustice was sharp in his soul. He said to himself that he -would offer no further defence, that he would not attempt to prove the -deception that had been put upon him, or how it was that he had been -robbed at once of his scheme and honour. If it could be believed for a -moment by people who had known him for years that he was so guilty, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> -would make no attempt to explain. If ever an accusation was unlikely, -unreasonable, inconsistent with every law, it was this.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>DEFEATED AND WRONGED.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">He</span> had walked a long way before he came to himself out of those whirling -circles of thought in which the mind gets involved when it is suddenly -stung by a great wrong, or startled by a poignant incident. With this -strong pressure upon him, he had gone right away into the Strand, and -along that busy line of streets into the din and crowds of the city, -feeling, like a deaf man, that the noise around made it more possible to -hear the voice of his own thoughts, and to endure the clangour of his -heart beating in his ears. He walked fast, not turning to the right nor -to the left, straight through the bewildering throng in which every man -had his own little world of incident, of sentiment, and feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>ing -undisturbed by the contact of others on every side.</p> - -<p>At first it had been the keen tooth of that wrong, the undeserved -disgrace that had fallen upon him, which had occupied all his -sensations. But by degrees other thoughts came in. He had left Edgeley -in haste to strike his blow for fortune and reputation, though he was so -young, to qualify himself for a new phase of life, to put himself nearer -at least to the level of Elly, to justify his own pretensions to her. -The scene in Mrs. Egerton’s room suddenly flashed before him as he -walked, adding another and yet sharper blow to that which he had already -received. He had said that he would succeed, that he should be rich, -that he had the ball at his foot. This morning when he came out of his -lodgings he had felt the ball at his foot. How could it be otherwise? He -knew the value of his own work. It was a work much wanted, upon which -the comfort of a district, the value of the property in it, and the -lives of its inhabitants might depend. And he felt convinced that he had -hit upon the right way of remedying this fault of nature<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> which had -given so much trouble and cost so much suffering. What hours and hours -he had thought of it and turned it over! What quires of paper he had -covered with his calculations! It did not perhaps seem romantic work; -but all the poetry in John’s nature had gone into it. It had been Elly’s -work, too, though Elly could not have done one of all those endless -mathematical exercises. It had occupied his mind for two at least of -those early lovely years in which imagination is so sweet: and his -imaginations had been sweet, though they had to do, you would have said, -with things not lovely, cuttings and embankments, and drawings, and -figures upon figures, armies of them, calculations without end. His very -walks and the exercise he took, the boating which was his favourite -recreation when he had any time, had all been inspired and accompanied -by this. While he waited outside a lock, he was busy calculating its -fall, and the weight and force of the water, and studying the banks high -or low, for his purpose. He had grown learned in the formations of the -district, in its geology and its productions with the same motive. He -had marked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> unconsciously where wood could be got at and bricks made for -the future works, and when his eye travelled over the river flats to the -line of cottages with dull lines upon their lower storey, showing the -flood-mark to which the water had risen, there rose in him a fine -fervour as he thought that by-and-by all such dangers should come to an -end. Thoughts frivolous and unworthy, the light and trifling mental -dissipations that beguile young minds, and the insidious curiosities and -temptations with which they play, were all crowded out by these -imaginations, which were so practical, so professional, so enthusiastic, -so full of the poetry of reality. This was the way in which many months -had been occupied. And now——!</p> - -<p>It was a long time before John had sufficiently calmed himself down, and -got the mastery of those whirling circles of ever-recurring thought -which almost maddened him at first, to face the situation as it now -stood. At first, and for a long time, it appeared to him that ruin as -complete as it was undeserved had overwhelmed him; his good fame seemed -to be gone, and the bitterness of the thought that people who knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> him, -and knew him so well, and who had years of experience of his integrity -and faithful service, should have at once believed him guilty of such -treachery, seemed to drown him in a hopeless flood; for how should he -convince strangers of his honour if they had no faith in it? or how -attempt to clear himself professionally when two of the chief -authorities in his profession believed him to have behaved so? Would it -be the best way, the only way, to shake the dust from off his feet and -rush away to the end of the world where a man could work, if it were the -roughest navvy work, and be free from false accusation and the horror of -seeing himself falsely condemned. But, then, Elly! John plunged again -deeper than ever into that blackness of darkness. He had boasted in his -self-confidence of the success which was awaiting him, of the certainty -of his prospects. He remembered now how Mrs. Egerton had shaken her -head. And now here he stood with his success turned into failure, his -confidence into despair; the people who knew him best refusing to hear -him. He had no fear that Elly would refuse to hear him; but who else -would believe?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> They would not, indeed, believe that he had been -treacherous, or played a villain’s part, as the Barretts did; but they -would think that he had mistaken his own powers, that he was not what he -imagined, that his account of himself was a boy’s brag, and not a sober -estimate of what he knew he could do. And how convince them, how remedy -the evil? Was it possible that any remedy would ever be found?</p> - -<p>He had gained a little calm when he began to ask himself this question. -Out of the whirl of painful thoughts and passionate entanglement of all -the perplexities round him, he suddenly came to a clear spot from which -he could look behind and after. He found himself on the bridge crossing -the river, having got there he scarcely knew how, coming back in the -direction of the office and of his lodgings after a feverish round -through all the noise of London. As he walked across the bridge, there -suddenly came to him a recollection of his first beginning—how he had -paused there with the letter in his hand with which he had been sent to -the Messrs. Barrett by his mother. He had paused, angry and wounded and -sore, and looked down upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> the outward-bound ships, and for a moment -had thought of forsaking this cold, unkindly world in which he had no -longer any home or anyone who loved him, of tossing the letter into the -river and going his own way, and taking upon himself the responsibility -of his own life. He had not carried out that wild resolution. He had -swallowed all his repugnances, his pride, his rebellious feelings, and -accepted the more dutiful way: and till now he had never repented that -decision. He paused again, and before him lay the same great stream -leading out into the unknown, the same ships ready to carry him thither, -into a world all strange, where nobody would know John Sandford had ever -been accused of falsehood. The repetition of this scene and suggestion -gave him a certain shock, and brought him back sharply to himself. John -Sandford, John May—he had not then been sure which he was—his heart -had risen against the woman who was his mother, who had distrusted him -and taken from him his father’s name. Now he was more or less ashamed of -the boyish rashness which had set him against her decision in this -respect. He was John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> Sandford now, beyond any question. What if, -perhaps, this fever of indignation and despair which was in his veins -might die down and pass away, as the other had done?</p> - -<p>This brought him back to more particular questions. He had felt no doubt -from the first moment as to what had really happened: that the man whom -he had so foolishly trusted, whom he had no reason to trust, had played -him false, and carried off the copy which John had given him to do, out -of what had appeared to him pure benevolence, Christian charity—to the -rival firm. That was perfectly clear to him, though in his indignation -and fury he would not pause to explain. If it was explained ever so, it -would not restore the scheme thus betrayed to its original importance, -or place it, as he had intended, in all its novelty and originality and -ingeniousness, in the hands best able to carry it out. In any case, his -secret was broken, his ideas exposed to curious and eager competitors -who might, and probably would, take instant advantage of them. John -still felt that he was ruined, however it might turn out. And yet he -might clear his honour at least, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> show how he had been himself -betrayed. He had begun to acknowledge this possibility, to breathe more -freely, to feel the fumes of passion dispersing, and the real landscape, -chilled and grey with all the rosy illusions of hope disappearing, yet -still real and solid under his feet, once more coming into his sight, -when he became suddenly aware of an approaching figure, very unwelcome, -most undesirable to meet at such a moment, yet not to be ignored. Why -should he turn up precisely now, that chance acquaintance to whom John -had committed himself in the impatience of his boyhood, and with whom he -had a sort of irregular, fictitious intercourse, more congenial to -Montressor’s profession and ways than to his own? It brought a sort of -ludicrous element into his trouble to meet this man, to whom he was not -himself but another, a being who had never existed save for that one -night on which he had enacted a sort of little single-scene -tragic-comedy as John May. Montressor was not a person to be eluded: he -came forward with his hands stretched out, his shiny hat bearing down -over the heads of the other passengers upon John, as if it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> been a -flag carried aloft, with the directest and straightest impulse.</p> - -<p>‘Me dear young friend,’ he said, ‘me brave boy! how glad I am to see -ye.’</p> - -<p>Montressor was a little better dressed than usual. The shiny hat was -new, or almost new, though it had somehow caught the characteristics of -the old one. His coat was good, his well-brushed aspect no longer giving -so distinct an accentuation to his shabbiness. He put his arm within -John’s in the fervour of having much to say.</p> - -<p>‘Fate’s been good to me,’ he said, ‘and when it’s so in great things -’tis also in small. Here have I been watching for ye, wondering would ye -pass hereabouts, to tell ye, me young friend, that once again good luck -has come Montressor’s way.’</p> - -<p>‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said John; but what he felt was only a sort of -dull half pang additional, a sense that good luck might now come in -anyone’s way save his, which was closed to it for evermore.</p> - -<p>‘That I’m sure of,’ said the actor, ‘it isn’t very much we’ve seen of -ye, John May, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> don’t even know where to find ye. To tell the -truth, in me shabbiness and me poverty I didn’t care to know: for -meeting you in the street is one thing and pursuing you to your lodging -is another. No. Montressor was not one to shame his friends, even though -’twas virtuous poverty. But rejoice with me, me young friend—that phase -is over, never, I hope, to come me way again.’</p> - -<p>‘Have you got an engagement?’ asked John, wondering and reflecting upon -the shabbiness which was as pronounced as ever one short week before.</p> - -<p>‘Better than that,’ said the actor. He put his hand to his eyes with a -mixture of fiction yet reality. ‘Me eyes are full and so’s my heart. -Pardon me, young man. Once you saved her life—never knowing that small -thing was the future Rachel, the future Siddons. Me dear friend! it is -Edie that has an engagement. Edie, me chyild!’</p> - -<p>‘Edie!’ cried John, and then he laughed aloud at the thought. Edie, that -baby, to whom he had sent something the other day to buy a doll.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Indeed, ’tis Edie, no one else. Ye haven’t seen her for a great while. -Ye don’t know that she’s sixteen or near it, and a genius. She has a -right to it, sir. It’s hers by inheritance. <i>My</i> chyild, and her -mother’s—who under the name of Ada Somerset took leading parts for -years—I don’t grudge it to her, me dear May. She has had devoted care. -She has had a training, me dear sir, that began in her cradle—and now!’ -He laid his hand upon the heart that no doubt was as full of real -emotion as if he had not had a word to say on the subject. ‘And she is a -good girl, and the ball at her foot,’ he added, in a tremulous tone, -with water standing in his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘The ball at her foot,’ said John, with a harsh laugh. ‘So had I -yesterday—or, at least, so I thought.’</p> - -<p>‘There’s something happened to you, me brave boy?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing’s happened: at least, nothing that’s wonderful or out of the -way. I’m supposed to have broken trust and disgraced myself. It’s like -the things that happen in your stage plays. I’m condemned for something -I never thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> of, and robbed by one to whom I tried to be kind. Go -home and take care of Edie. Never let her try to be kind to anyone,’ -John said, ‘it’s fatal; it’s nothing less than ruin.’</p> - -<p>‘Me dear boy, open your mind to me, and relieve it of that perilous -stuff. It is the best way. Come, tell me. Montressor has but little in -his power even now, but what he can do is always at his friends’ -disposal; and, if there’s a villain to be hunted down, trust me, me -brave boy—I’ll hunt him to the death!’</p> - -<p>‘Why should I trouble you with my vexations?’ cried John. But in the end -he yielded to the natural satisfaction of recounting all that had -happened to a sympathetic—almost too sympathetic—ear. Montressor’s was -no indifferent backing of his friend. He threw himself with his whole -soul into the wrongs of the unfortunate young man. Indeed, so entirely -did he enter into John’s case that John felt himself restored to hopeful -life, half by the sympathy, and perhaps a little more than half by the -genial absurdity that seemed to glide into everything from Montressor’s -devoted zeal. The light came back to the skies more com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span>pletely in this -humorous way than if some happy incident had restored it. He began to -see through the exaggeration of his friend’s feeling, that after all -there was something laughable in his own despair, and that a man is not -ruined in a moment in any such stagy and artificial way.</p> - -<p>While this change began to operate, and while John poured forth his -tale, he pursued the familiar way to his lodgings instinctively, leading -the sympathetic Montressor with him without question asked. The actor -had never before penetrated so far. It had not occurred to John to -invite him, especially as he had never informed him of his real name. -The fact that he had been so foolish as to call himself May to this -early acquaintance had raised a barrier between them more effectual than -any barrier of prudence or sense that such a friendship was not one to -be cultivated. But in the fervour of his confidence, and in the -enthusiasm of Montressor’s sympathy, the consolation of it and the -ridicule of it, everything else was forgotten. And John found himself at -his own door with his faithful sympathiser before he was aware.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> He had -opened it and bidden his friend to enter when his eye was suddenly -caught by a slouching figure on the opposite side of the street, which -aroused another set of feelings altogether. John thrust Montressor in, -calling on him to sit down and wait, and then turning with a bound -rushed across the street in the direction of this lounger, who, suddenly -taking fright, had turned too, and was hurrying along as fast as a -wavering pair of legs would carry him. The legs were unsteady, and -little to be depended upon, though sudden panic inspired them, and they -were worth nothing in comparison with youth and hot indignation now -suddenly set on their track. The chase lasted but a minute. John made up -to the fluttering, retreating figure, and was just about, with -outstretched hand, to seize him, when the pursued suddenly turned round, -meeting him with a rueful, deprecating, yet woefully smiling face, in -which the same ridicule which had been rising in John’s mind towards -himself was blended with a sort of helpless despair and insinuating -prayer for mercy.</p> - -<p>‘Stop,’ cried his amanuensis, the traitor who had ruined him, with that -rueful smile, ‘I’ll go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> with you anywhere—take me where you please. -I—I can’t defend myself.’</p> - -<p>‘What have you done with my papers?’ cried John, trembling with hurry -and rage, yet subdued, he could not tell how.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll tell you,’ said the other. ‘I’ll tell you everything. Take me -somewhere and let me tell you.’</p> - -<p>The young man laid his hand upon the old man’s arm, and led him back, -feeling somehow his heart melt towards the unresistant sinner. -Montressor stood at the door watching this pursuit and capture. He -waited for them as they came forward, his face expressing a sort of -stupefication of wonder. John only remembered the spectator when he -reached the door with his prisoner, and found this startled countenance -confronting him.</p> - -<p>‘Why, May!’ cried he, turning from one to another. ‘Why, May!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>THE CULPRIT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">John’s</span> amanuensis, whom he had so rashly trusted, had carried away his -copy of John’s scheme with, in reality, little or no idea of cheating, -and none at all of injuring John. His faculties were confused by long -courses of meditative sophistry, such as had been his amusement in the -years when he had no other, and by the criminal atmosphere in which he -had lived, in which the deception or spoiling of your neighbour was the -most natural matter, the best sign of talent and originality, at once -the excitement and the amusement of the perverted mind. The man who -called himself March had a more than usual share of that confusion which -so often accompanies breaches of the moral law. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> had gone through far -more than usual of those mental exercises by which all but the most -stupid and degraded attempt to prove themselves right, or at least not -so far wrong, in those offences which to the rest of the world are -beyond excuse. And his mental ingenuity was such that he could make a -wonderful plea to himself in favour of any course which fancy or -temptation suggested. In the present case the effort had not been at all -a difficult one. He had really meant no harm to John. He intended, in -fact, to recommend John warmly, to put a good thing in his way. In all -probability the young man would not prove a good advocate for himself. -He might be shy of pushing his own interests: most inventors were shy -and retiring, easily discouraged: and what he meant to secure would not -in reality be more than a percentage on the trouble he would take in -recommending John. A percentage—that was what in reality it would -be—and well earned: for had he not been at the trouble of copying, and -indeed adding something of his own to the young man’s dry plans and -calculations, besides the service he would do him in carrying his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> goods -as it were to market and securing a sale for them, and a profitable job -for their inventor. Nothing could be more self-evident than this. At the -end he came to be quite sure that he was doing his young benefactor a -real service, and that nothing in his conduct wanted excusing at all.</p> - -<p>He was a little shaken, however, by his reception at the office of -Messrs. Spender and Diggs, and by their instant recognition of John’s -name, and their curious questions on the subject. Had the plan been -rejected by Barretts, they asked—and he did not even know what -‘Barretts’ meant. He was still more dismayed when he found (though he -ought to have known very well it must be so) that no answer would be -given him on the subject till the papers were examined, and that it -would be necessary that Sandford should come himself to elucidate and -explain them. There was quite a little excitement in the office, -evidently, about Sandford’s work and its presentation there. The partner -who seemed to him to be Diggs (he could not tell why, from his -appearance), came and looked over the shoulder of the partner who must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> -be Spender, and one or two others were called into the council and -questions asked as to whether young Sandford had left Barretts, whether -there had been a quarrel, what had happened. The ignorance he showed -about all this, brought suspicious looks upon him, looks which disturbed -all his calculations: for it had never occurred to him that any -suspicion could attach to him in respect of a document written in his -own hand, and which by that very fact surely belonged to him, more or -less. He was glad at last to get away, feeling a certain distrust -involved in the questions that were addressed to him, and beginning to -wonder what they could do to him if it were discovered to be without -John’s permission that the papers were brought here. Pooh! he said to -himself, but only when he had got away—nothing could be done to him; it -was no wrong to John or anyone. He had a right, a moral right, to the -work of his own hands: and it was in kindness he had done it; kindness -qualified by a percentage which is what the very best of friends demand.</p> - -<p>But if he was disturbed and troubled by this <i>contretemps</i>, Joe, who was -really throughout the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> matter his inspiring influence, was much more so. -He was angry and disappointed beyond description. He had expected, being -so much more ignorant than his principal, money immediate, a sum down, -for the papers which young Sandford had said were his fortune. He was -furious with the feebleness of his ‘mate,’ who had left those papers -without getting anything for them.</p> - -<p>‘I’d not a’ bin such a blooming fool,’ said Joe, whose adjectives are -generally left out in this record. ‘I’d a’ up and spoken. Money down or -ye gets nothin’ from me. Lor, if I had a ’ansom coat to my back like -you, and could speak like as them swells would listen to me, d’ye think -I’d a’ come back empty-handed like that?’</p> - -<p>March was still more confused by this vituperation. It was in vain, he -knew, to convince Joe that such a rapid transaction was impossible in -the nature of things, for neither Joe nor his kind know anything of the -nature of things. They know that when they have anything to sell, money -is to be got for it, and that is all. Joe made his patron and dependent -(for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> poor man was both) very uncomfortable on this subject: and -other things too made him uncomfortable; the necessity for communicating -with John, and informing him that he must see Spender & Diggs, and -explain his scheme to them; and the necessity for going back to Spender -& Diggs, which Joe had pressed upon him, incapable of hearing reason. -What was he to do? The poor man hung about the street in which John -lived, half hoping for an encounter which might clear up the matter one -way or other. When he saw John his heart gave a jump of pleasure and -relief in the first instance, and then the instinct of the offender came -upon him and he turned and fled. But what was his flight worth before -the pursuit of the active and impassioned youth who could have -outstripped his swiftest pace in a stride or two? And then the fugitive -said to himself that he was not really guilty, that he had done nothing -to be afraid of. Kindness, qualified by a percentage. The rueful smile -which was in his eyes when he turned to John was half conciliatory and -half made up of self-approbation and amusement at the success of that -phrase. Naturally, John was aware of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> neither of these sentiments. He -pushed his prisoner before him into his sitting-room, taking no heed of -the exclamations of Montressor. It was a trouble to him at all times to -hear that name of May from the actor’s lips, but it was his own fault, -and he could blame nobody. He thrust the culprit into his sitting-room, -and pushed him into a chair without saying a word. He was breathless, -not with the exertion so much as with the tumult in his mind, the -eagerness, and passion. He had not expected to find thus the means of -exonerating himself so soon, nor could he help a certain blaze of wrath -against the man who had done him so ill a turn.</p> - -<p>‘There!’ he said, waving Montressor aside with his hand. ‘Tell me first -why you did it. What induced you to steal my papers and try to ruin me? -Was not I kind to you?—was I not——’</p> - -<p>‘Steal your papers!’ said the offender, with a look of surprised -innocence. ‘I stole none of your papers. The copy which I had myself -made at your request was surely by all laws of reason mine in the first -place, and not yours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>John gazed at him with a gasp of astonishment at this extraordinary -doctrine, but for the first moment found nothing to say.</p> - -<p>‘I allow,’ said the culprit, with a certain magnanimity, ‘that had I -been engaged by you at, let us say, so much a day to make this copy, -with a full understanding that it was to be your property, your question -might be justified; but, as a matter of fact, no stipulations of the -kind were made. You suggested to me that I should come here and copy -your papers—with the benevolent intention of keeping me out of -mischief—I suppose out of the company which you did not think good for -me, of my faithful Joe.’</p> - -<p>He had changed his position in the chair to a more easy one, and leaned -forward a little, speaking, demonstrating slightly, easily, with his -hand. John, in his sudden fury, and in the darkness of his distress, -felt the current of his thoughts arrested, and his mind standing still -with wonder. He gasped, but the words would not come.</p> - -<p>‘But there was no engagement,’ resumed the speaker, with a smile; -‘nothing was said about so much a day. My labour was not put to any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> -price, nor was there any time mentioned when it should be finished, or -anything said about its ultimate destination. You will see that I am -quite exact when you think over the circumstances. Isn’t it so? Well, -then, by all laws of logic, the copy was mine, and I had a right to do -what I liked with it; put it in the fire if I liked——’</p> - -<p>‘But not to offer my scheme, my work, my ideas to—to—another firm,’ -cried John, in his confusion: ‘to an opposition—to a——’</p> - -<p>He saw he had made a mistake, but in his excitement could not tell what -it was.</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said March, ‘I see! Now I understand; it is a question of rivalry: -they’re competitors—they’re on the other side? Certainly that wasn’t at -all what I intended: and now I understand.’</p> - -<p>It was John’s impulse to seize him by the collar, to shake the sophistry -out of this bland usurper of his rights. But he did not do so. He -restrained himself with a strong effort, and recovered the thread of -reason which had been snatched for a moment out of his hand.</p> - -<p>‘We might go into that,’ he said, ‘if you had the least right to take -from me what was my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> work, and not yours. But you are too clever not to -see that this is quite a secondary question. Whatever you may say, you -copied those papers for me, by my orders, for payment. Bah! what is the -use of arguing about such a matter? You know it as well as I do. You -know my papers are stolen, that you have tried to make a profit of them, -that you have taken them from me, to whom they belonged——’</p> - -<p>John’s aspect in spite of himself was threatening: his countenance -flushed, he changed his position, he clenched his hand. He was a -powerful young man and the other was feeble and limp if not very old. -Montressor, with his stage instinct, found it time for him to interfere.</p> - -<p>‘May,’ he said, ‘old friend, I have always stood up for you, though I -know you’ve done a dark deed. I’ve spoken for you even to this brave -boy. He’s your own name, and may-be for aught I know he’s your own flesh -and blood. Oh, me old friend! there used to be a deal of good in you, -though weak. How could you find it in your heart to do a wrong to a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span>young beginner? That wasn’t like what ye used to be, me old May——’</p> - -<p>John had listened with a stupefied air to this speech. May! what did -Montressor mean? He caught him by the arm.</p> - -<p>‘The man’s name is March,’ he said.</p> - -<p>This brought, what all other accusations had not done, a faint colour to -the culprit’s face.</p> - -<p>‘One month’s as good as another,’ he said, with a feeble laugh, ‘and -begins with the same letter. So it’s you, Montressor. I didn’t notice -who it was: the outer part of you is in better trim than when I saw you -the other day.’</p> - -<p>The actor replied, with a wave of his hand,</p> - -<p>‘What has to be thought upon at present,’ he said, ‘is you and not me.’</p> - -<p>This was not the policy of the man who was on his trial.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it’s the fortune of war. The other day I was able -to help you as an old friend, and now it’s you that patronise me.’</p> - -<p>‘May,’ said John. He could not get beyond that point. What they said -between themselves was nothing to him. He paid no attention to what they -said. May! There swept into his mind a quick passing recollection of the -feverish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> anxiety he had once felt to identify somehow and find out his -relationship with some one of the name, and the Mayor of Liverpool, whom -he had almost disturbed in his state to ask, Do you know anyone——? But -he never met anywhere an individual who bore that name till now.</p> - -<p>‘Ye see before ye,’ said Montressor, embarrassed, ‘me young friend, the -unfortunate man that I was trying to recommend to you the last time we -met. He says true, he was better off at that moment than I was; but that -makes no difference. Yes, me noble boy. This is the May I told ye of. I -have thought there was a likeness in some things between ye; but me wife -would not hear me say it, for, John May, ye have the heart of a king: -and me poor friend there, though he’s named the same——’</p> - -<p>The man, who had not been listening any more than John had listened to -the private conversation between his two companions, here woke up from -his own thoughts with a slight start.</p> - -<p>‘Who,’ he said, ‘are you calling John May? My name is Robert, not John -at all—if it is me you mean. My father’s name was John, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> honest -worthy man. I always made up my mind to call the boy after him. What do -you know about John May? that’s not my name, not my name at all. I’m -rather in a weak state of health and I can’t bear very much. You -wouldn’t speak of such things if you knew that they threw me into a -tremble all over, which is very bad for me. Who do you mean by John -May?’</p> - -<p>The three men looked at each other in a tremulous quiver of excitement, -like the flashing of intense heat in the air. They gazed at each other -saying nothing. Montressor, though he had hitherto been calm, was -growing agitated too, he could not tell why. There was a suppressed -excitement in the very air round them which none of the three could -fully understand. At this moment there was a knock at the door, which -they all heard, as if they heard it not, without an attempt to make any -reply. The world outside was for the moment blank to them; they had -something more important than anything outside to settle among -themselves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>A CRISIS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> had been about noon when John left Messrs. Barretts’ office. It was -now between three and four in the afternoon. His long walk, his talk -with Montressor, the agitation and excitement of the catastrophe had -made the time go as upon wings. But it had not gone upon wings at the -office, where there was a great deal of commotion and discomfort, the -pupils saying among themselves that for Sandford to go away in such a -way was next to impossible; that little Prince, the little sneak, had -told some lie—just like him; that the bosses, or the governors, or -whatever other name for the heads of the office happened to be current -at the moment, had made a howling mistake, and that the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> affair -was nothing but a proof of the general stupidity of those teachers and -overseers whom it is the mission of youth to dethrone. This agitation of -feeling was not confined to the pupil-room or the outer office. It -entered in, with the most serious results, to the very sanctuary of the -establishment, Mr. Barrett’s own room, where Mr. William had a -controversy with his father, which nothing but the decorum necessary -between the heads of such a government could have kept within bounds.</p> - -<p>Mr. Barrett was a pessimist by nature, and one who always expected to be -deceived and wronged. He had heard, he forgot what, that had led him to -expect evil of John, and to that idea he had clung during the period of -the young man’s training with the purest faith. He had to confess from -time to time that John had done very well so far, but—— He never -forgot to shake his head and add that but. Now he was, if it is -permissible to say so of a good man, delighted that his prophecies were -justified. He told his son that he had always expected it, ‘from -something his mother told me,’—though in the course of years he had -forgotten what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> Mrs. Sandford had told him, which was not much.</p> - -<p>William Barrett, however, was of another mind. He had liked John—he had -put full faith in him, he had appreciated his practical abilities, and -the good work he did, and his power of managing men, and had been -disposed to look indulgently upon any theories or plans he might have. -This was all the length his mind had gone when John spoke to him first -of that scheme for draining the Thames Valley. He had smiled at it very -good-humouredly—he had said to himself that when boys do take up an -idea it is generally a magnificent one, but that it is better even to -plan something on a ridiculously gigantic scale than to think of nothing -at all. He was prepared, indeed, to get some amusement out of John’s -Thames Valley. Perhaps there might be something in it, some idea which a -maturer brain could work out. There was no telling, but at all events it -would be worth looking at for the fun of it, if nothing more: a youth of -that age, with no experience to speak of, tackling a business which had -baffled the wisest! But it was like a boy to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> so. Fools rush in—or -at least pupils rush in—where engineers sometimes fear to tread.</p> - -<p>So he looked forward with amused expectation to the production of John’s -scheme. But when Prince told him that story of Spender & Diggs, the -scheme took a different aspect in Mr. William Barrett’s eyes. It gained -an importance, a reality which nothing else could have given it. He did -not smile at the idea of this absurd youthful plan as presented to the -rival office. It became immediately a serious matter; a project of the -greatest importance. All at once it became possible, very likely, that -the other firm, who had nothing to do with John, might be about to reap -all the benefit of him, and to enter upon the greatest engineering work -that had been attempted for years, through this boy at whose plans -‘Barretts’ had smiled. William Barrett had no inclination to smile now. -It was deadly earnest by this time: and he could not but feel sure in -the natural certainty of events that this scheme which he had -pooh-poohed would be seen in its true light by the others, and would -make the fortune of Spender & Diggs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span></p> - -<p>This thought had made him severe to John, though not so severe as his -father: and more open to conviction. His mind was at all times more open -to conviction than that of his father: and when John had burst out of -the office, in the first rage of his indignation, refusing to defend -himself, Mr. William, as has been said, followed him to the door, -calling him back, with a compunction which he could not get rid of. This -compunction did nothing but go on increasing in the blank which followed -that fiery scene. And the atmosphere in the pupil’s room affected Mr. -William, too, though he was not aware of it. He had a consciousness that -the lads were saying among themselves, in the slang of which all elder -persons disapprove, that the bosses had made a thundering mistake. Had -they made a mistake? He was, in his heart, of the same opinion as the -pupil-room. He did not think that John Sandford had done this thing. Now -that the flurry of discovery was over, he asked himself was it likely? -had the young fellow ever done anything that looked the least like it? -Had he not always been as steady as a rock, always honest and true,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> -never neglecting his employers’ interests, carrying out their orders, as -good a worker as could be? Was it likely he should turn round all at -once? This thought worked in his mind silently, while those boys -entertained each other with saying that the bosses had made a mistake: -and it was greatly stimulated by the exasperating suggestion that -Spender & Diggs might reap all the profit, and might go far ahead of -Barretts in the struggle for fortune and fame. Would they go ahead of -Barretts? He began to remember John’s start of surprise, his question as -to who it was that had carried his papers to the other office, his look -of enlightenment. If they had been stolen from him, and the papers which -he had flung down on the table, were, as he had said, his original -scheme, Spender & Diggs might not find it so easy to shoot ahead of -Barretts. On the whole, thinking it over, it was more likely that -Spender & Diggs had cheated than John. It would not be the first time. -They might have put one of their men up to it, to find out what the -young fellow was working at. Of course it soon got abroad among the lads -what one was doing—and what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> more likely than that the rival firm, old -hands at that sort of thing, people far more used to picking the brains -of other people’s pupils than to developing talent among their own, what -if they had secured possession of the copy of John’s scheme by one of -the underhand ways with which they were familiar? On the whole, that was -really more likely than that Sandford, a lad against whom nobody had a -word to say, who had always behaved well, should have gone over, without -rhyme or reason, to the enemy.</p> - -<p>By dint of long-continued reasonings like this, William Barrett worked -himself up by the time he left the office to seek another interview with -John. He said to himself that he would put his pride in his pocket, and -go after the young fellow, who no doubt was miserable, though he had so -much pluck he would not show it. His heart smote him that he had not -taken all these things into consideration before, and he had visions of -young Sandford’s misery and despair, which affected even the middle-aged -imagination of a man quite unused to anything heroical. He felt that his -father had been unkind to John, which gave him at once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> an impulse and a -motive for seeking the young man out—for, though he respected his -father, the junior partner was generally more or less in opposition to -him. All these things together made him determine to go after John, and -have it out with him. He got his address almost stealthily, as not -wishing anyone in the office to know until he saw what would come of it, -and set out from the office a little earlier than usual that no time -might be lost. He found the door open when he came to the house, and -being himself somewhat excited, and beyond the rule of common laws, went -in without ringing the bell; and, hearing voices in the first -sitting-room he came to, knocked at the door. He was thus brought into -the very midst of the agitated group which we have attempted to set -before the reader at the climax of their excitement. The voices ceased, -after a moment, but no attention was paid to Mr. Barrett’s knock. -Something of the excitement that was in the air communicated itself to -him.</p> - -<p>‘Sandford,’ said William Barrett, putting his head in at the door.</p> - -<p>They were all silent, staring at each other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> full of confused trouble, -suspicion, and uncertainty. Even John felt vaguely, when the original -question rose up before him in the sudden apparition of Mr. William -Barrett’s grave face, that another matter had since arisen which -swallowed up the first. The intruder who came in without invitation, -feeling somehow that here was a crisis above conventional rules found -that the interest centred like the high light in a picture in the -countenance of the man who sat at the table, leaning on it, his whole -person quivering with a tremulous movement like palsy, his face turned, -pale, with a half-anxious, half-fatuous beseeching smile upon it to the -other man standing opposite to him, who on his side looked from John to -the new-comer and back again with a look of amazement and confusion. -John himself stood half-stupefied between them, giving no more than a -glance of recognition to his employer, occupied with more urgent -affairs; and yet Mr. Barrett had good reason to know that his own -mission to this youth who was so strangely daring his fate, was in one -sense life and death.</p> - -<p>‘Whom do you mean by John May? John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> May’s not a common name, neither is -Sandford. Montressor, you’re stirring up all my life, and you know it. -Most things I can bear well enough. I’ve gone through a great deal. I’m -hardened to most things—but not—not—to my little boy’s name. You’ve -got a child of your own, and you ought to know. I’ve not seen that -little chap for fourteen years. I don’t know where he is now, if he’s -living or if he’s dead, and yet once he was the apple of my eye. -Montressor, what do you mean with your play-acting and your stage -tricks, bandying about what was the name of my little boy?’</p> - -<p>John Sandford stood listening to these words which came out, with pauses -between, in a voice which was full of real feeling, a voice so different -from the easy sophistry, the humorous self-contempt, the confused -philosophy which were its usual utterance—with sensations -indescribable, and something like a moral overturn of his whole being: -vague recollections, suggestions from the past, horrible fears, doubts, -certainties, confusion, rose up in him, enveloping him like a mist. He -cared no more for William Barrett than if he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> an office-boy; he -forgot all the question about the Thames Valley. These things, though he -had felt them half-an-hour ago to be the most momentous in the world, -departed from him as if they had never been. He stood, scarcely able to -see for the haze of feverish excitement that had got into his eyes, -staring blindly, with all his faculties concentrated in that of hearing, -listening for what would come next.</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Montressor, ‘ye do me wrong. The drama is the drama, and I -love it; but stage business is not, as ye say, for common life. Me own -name I don’t deny, if all were laid bare, is perhaps not Montressor. But -the poor player is likewise a man. Had I any stage effect in me mind -when I told ye there was one of your own name I would recommend ye to? -here he stands, and a young fellow any man might be proud of. The first -time I set eyes on him he saved me chyild’s life—judge if I was likely -to forget his name. This, me poor friend, is John May.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s nonsense as I can testify,’ said William Barrett, breaking in -bluntly. ‘I don’t know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> who your friends are, Sandford, and perhaps I -ought to beg your pardon for interfering; but you’re very young though -you’re not perhaps aware of it. Come, gentlemen, if you’ve got any hold -upon this young man I shall be glad to answer your questions about him, -and let him attend to his business. He is in fact my pupil, and it’s not -to my interest his mind should be disturbed from his work. Whatever -stories you may have heard I must know more about him than you do. His -name is Sandford. He was placed by his mother in our hands.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Montressor, with dignity, ‘these are me friends, both the -young man and the old. I do not turn to strangers to ask for information -concerning me friends. Ye may be well meaning, but ye are ignorant—and -I find ye intrusive,’ said the actor, turning away with a wave of his -hand.</p> - -<p>‘Sandford!’ cried William Barrett. Capitals could not do justice to the -injured majesty of this cry. Intrusive! In the rooms of a pupil taken -without a premium (that even he remembered in the shock of the -indignity), such a word to be applied to him!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span></p> - -<p>But John said nothing. He was stupefied, or mad, or drunk, which was it? -He scarcely gave his employer a look. The colour had disappeared from -his face, his eyes seemed to have a film over them, his lips trembled. -He said at last, almost inaudibly, looking straight before him at -vacancy,</p> - -<p>‘My real name is John May—that was my name when I was a child—the -other—is my grandfather’s name.’</p> - -<p>Then the man who had injured John, who had taken his plans from him and -robbed him, and made him appear a traitor, rose up tottering, supporting -himself by the table.</p> - -<p>‘If it’s your grandfather’s name,’ he said, ‘and you were Johnnie May -when you were a child—— God help us all, it’s fourteen years ago. Are -you my little chap, my little man, that I used to take out of your bed -in your nightgown, with your bonny bright eyes shining? Oh, God in -heaven, I’m not fit to be any good lad’s father. Are you my little boy? -Are you Johnnie May?’</p> - -<p>The room and all that was in it swam in dark circles of confusing mist -in John’s eyes. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> grasped a chair to support himself, to defend -himself; the floor seemed to give way under his feet.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll—I’ll come back presently,’ he said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Barrett thought more and more, with a grieved heart, that the young -fellow must have been drinking, as with a sudden rush he gained the -door, and clung to that again for a moment, like a man who has no -control of his limbs or movements. There he paused, and, looking at -them, said,</p> - -<p>‘Wait: wait here: till I come back——’</p> - -<p>Mr. Barrett followed him quickly, afraid of what might follow. He found -John ghastly and helpless, sitting on the step of the outer door. The -young man gave a little nod of his head.</p> - -<p>‘Wait,’ he gasped, ‘I’ll be better—in a moment—I want a little air.’</p> - -<p>‘Sandford, what is the matter? Something has happened to you; what are -you going to do?’</p> - -<p>John did not answer for a minute. He sat with his mouth open taking long -breaths, as if the air had been a cordial which he was gulping<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> down in -mouthfuls. The street was very quiet, there was nobody in sight, and the -air of early summer was fresh and a little chill in afternoon greyness. -Presently the young man rose and smiled faintly at his companion.</p> - -<p>‘I’m better,’ he said. ‘I’m fit now for what I’ve got to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Tell me, Sandford, what is it you are going to do? Nothing desperate, I -hope. I came to tell you I was ready to hear any explanation—’</p> - -<p>John waved his hand with an air of almost derision.</p> - -<p>‘Do you suppose I’m thinking of that? It’s gone far beyond that.’</p> - -<p>‘What can be beyond that?’ cried the employer, with exasperation. Then -he seized the young man by the arm. ‘What are you going to do?’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I must have a cab,’ said John, with his confused look, ‘for -quickness; besides that I couldn’t walk. All my strength’s gone out of -me.’</p> - -<p>‘But what are you doing? What has happened? Where are you going now?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span>’ -John looked at his chief, the friend of so many years, with a piteous -smile.</p> - -<p>‘I am going to find out—if there’s any hope for me—what’s to become of -me,’ he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>MRS. SANDFORD’S VIEW.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Sandford</span> sat in her matron’s room in the light of the bay windows, -making up her accounts as usual. She was regulating the lists of linen -in the hospital, the surgical appliances, the provisions of all kinds. -Her round of the wards had been made. The nurses had given their -reports, the special cases had been visited. Her day’s work, so to -speak, was done. The afternoon was the time for rest. She was occupying -it, as she often did, in this necessary, but not ostentatious work, upon -which so much of the comfort of the little community devoted to healing -and merciful service, depended. Mrs. Sandford was known to be a great -administrator: nothing was ever wanting, nothing to seek,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> under her -management; her stores never ran out. But she was so used to this work -of regulation and oversight that she did not find it very interesting. -Sometimes she would lay down her pen, sometimes even lean back in her -chair, which was not, however, a seductive lounge, but an ample, -comfortable Chippendale, in which you sat upright very much at your -ease, but had no encouragement to loll. She had things to think of apart -from the hospital. A letter lay on her table among all her lists and -account-books, which was from Susie, and there were things in it which -made this mother, who, after all, though perhaps of sterner fibre than -most, was still of the same stuff from which ordinary mothers are -made—both smile and sigh. Susie’s life was undergoing new developments. -A certain commotion was in it of new forces awakening, and new thoughts. -Perhaps, under the most favourable circumstances, Susie was not likely -to make such revelations as would justify any critic in saying that she -was ‘in love'; but there were in her letter indications, little eddies -which proved how the current went, straws that showed how the wind was -blowing. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> one thing, she kept up a continual comparison between two -unknown persons, of which she herself was evidently unconscious, but -which her mother perceived gradually by dint of repetition. ‘Mr. Percy -Spencer tells me’—‘but Mr. Cattley says:’—she had told her mother at -first all about her visitors, and how these two came and went, and -talked of John. Susie had a great deal to say, too, of Elly, and had -made her mother aware of all that had gone on in that respect, and also -of Mrs. Egerton and her opposition, which by times extended to Susie and -by times ebbed away altogether, as circumstances, or humour, or the -weather moved the parish queen in one way or another. Those reports were -always quite simple, and often amusing, for Susie had a quiet way of -telling a story, very circumstantial and clear, which sometimes gave her -readers a more luminous and humorous view than she was herself aware of. -But Susie made no comparison in respect to the ladies of Edgeley. Their -intercourse with her was simple. It was her visitors of the other sex -who evidently produced this effect of balance and comparison in her -mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Mr. Percy gave me his view of it; he takes very strong views; but Mr. -Cattley tells me——’</p> - -<p>This was always the position in which these two appeared—Percy bringing -forward all kinds of opinions, decisive of many matters, social and -otherwise; but Mr. Cattley always adding a criticism or comment, -something that changed the issue. Mrs. Sandford, for the fiftieth time, -leaned back in her chair, and put down her pen, and asked herself, with -a faint, lingering smile, which softened her stern face, what Susie -meant. Susie was her own child, to whom her heart was soft, her -companion, the sharer of all her thoughts. The sternness which she had -shown to John had never touched his sister. Susie knew her mother -entirely, knew what she meant, and what her past life had been. There -were no secrets between these two. Of many things in his own -antecedents, John was ignorant, but Susie knew everything. All Susie’s -ways of thinking had grown under her mother’s eye. She had never -thoroughly known her son, but she knew Susie through and through. This -made the greatest difference in their mutual relations. Mrs. Sandford -was to her daughter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> both tender, and soft, and gentle. Susie knew how -to make her laugh, to bring tears to her eyes, whereas to John there was -no laughter in her. All this, and even the contrast with John, who was -in no such position, drew the mother and daughter more closely together. -And it was with all the mingled sympathy and alarm, and tender -prescience and pleasure, and regret of that relationship, that she saw -the moment coming when the child would find some one else to be nearer -to her, more a portion of herself and her life than even her mother.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sandford felt, with that exquisite fellow-feeling which is like -divination, almost before Susie did, the development of a new affection -in Susie’s soul. And she leaned back in her chair between happiness and -sadness, pleased to see her girl ‘respected like the lave,’ though -already conscious of the desolation that desirable and good thing would -bring with it—asking herself, almost with amusement, Which would it be? -It was a mood more soft than was at all usual with her, and, -notwithstanding the darkness that must come with the fulfilment of those -dreams, it was a happy mood. That her mild Susie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> should have, not one -but two suitors flattered and amused her. Which would it be? Mr. -Cattley, in his mild, middle age, or Percy, the young priest, who had -never intended to yield to the weakness of love-making? This was the -subject of Mrs. Sandford’s thoughts: and other matters more painful, if -any painful matters were at that moment within the possibilities of her -life, had floated away like clouds from the languid sweetness of the -afternoon sky.</p> - -<p>There was something, however, in the sound of the hurried step she heard -approaching which roused her. It rang along the unoccupied passages, -quick, eager, hurried, yet with a little stumble of weakness in it, as -of excitement gone too far, and losing hold of itself. She listened, and -instantly sat upright in her chair, and put Susie’s letter away under a -bundle of papers. It was perhaps something very bad brought into the -accident ward, or the man in No. 4 had been taken with another attack, -or—— Then something made her start a little.</p> - -<p>‘It is his step,’ she said to herself: and <i>he</i> was John, the boy as she -always called him in her heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span></p> - -<p>He pushed open the door without knocking, and saying hurriedly, ‘May I -come in,’ came in without waiting for permission. Her experienced eye -saw at once that he had received a great shock. Either in body or mind -he had been shaken violently. His hair hung in damp masses on his -forehead. He was without colour, save when in speaking he suddenly -reddened and then was pale again. A touch of personal disarrangement -made this agitation of his appearance more remarkable. His tie had got -loose, and he had not perceived it. Such a simple matter of external -appearance seems to set a seal upon the profoundest commotions of life.</p> - -<p>She cried out, ‘What is the matter?’ before he could speak a word. Then, -starting suddenly with that instinctive alarm which moves us for those -we love, added quickly, ‘Susie! You have had some bad news.’</p> - -<p>‘Not of Susie,’ he said, in a breathless way. ‘Mother, I have come for -you. Come with me instantly, for God’s sake!’</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter, John? I can’t go out like this, you know. I have to -make arrange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span>ments. What is it?—for heaven’s sake tell me what it is.’</p> - -<p>‘I may never in my life ask such a thing from you again. Most likely I -shall never want it. If you have any feeling for me, for God’s sake come -with me. To me it is life or death.’</p> - -<p>She put her hand upon his arm, and drew him towards her, looking in his -face, feeling with a professional touch his hands and the throbbing of -his pulse.</p> - -<p>‘Something has gone amiss,’ she said. ‘Your hands are cold, and yet your -pulse is high. You have had some shock.’ She got up as she spoke, and -made him sit down in her chair, and put her hands upon his head. ‘Tell -me what is the matter,’ she said, in that tone of mild determination -with which she overawed her patients. ‘You are not fit to be flying -about.’</p> - -<p>There was something in the touch, in the maternal authority—though that -was scarcely more individual to him than to any other—which touched the -poor young fellow in the feverish crisis of feeling in which he was. It -was a relief to sink down into the chair, to feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> even its wooden arms -giving him a sensation of support. And to have some one to fall back -upon at such a moment was the best thing in heaven or earth. He had -never wanted such a prop before. It was against all the principles of -his life to look for it, and yet there was the profoundest consolation -in it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the heat and the horror of -his thoughts relaxed a little. He had meant to seize upon her, to carry -her away in a whirlwind of passionate haste and anxiety, to confront her -with <i>him</i>, the stranger who had possession of John’s rooms, and seemed -to claim possession of his life. That had seemed at first the only thing -to do: to carry her off without warning, to bring her face to face with -that unthought of, unsuspected apparition, and demand of her, ‘Who is -this?’ Perhaps there had been in it a gleam of personal vengeance too, -the desire to recompense with a keen, swift stroke of punishment the -deception put upon him, and all the mysteries now suddenly let loose -upon his head. But the touch of his mother’s hand, the anxiety in her -voice, the kindness—though perhaps no more than any patient at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> the -hospital would have called forth—over-turned all these intentions in a -moment. He was wound up to such a passion of feeling that everything -told upon him, and the revulsion was great. He leaned back, touching her -shoulder, laying his head upon it.</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ he said, like a child, with a pathetic voice of reproach, ‘why -did you tell me he was dead?’</p> - -<p>‘John!’ she started so violently that the pillow of rest on which he had -leaned seemed to reject as well as fail him. ‘John!’</p> - -<p>He turned round upon her suddenly, and caught her hands in his.</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ he said again, ‘is it true? Mother, is it true? I have never -understood. God help me, was this what it meant all the time?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sandford, who was so self-controlled and so strong, trembled and -quivered in his hold. She said, in a hoarse whisper,</p> - -<p>‘What has happened? Tell me what it is.’</p> - -<p>He held her hands fast, and would not let her go, swaying a little -backward and forward as if he were shaking her, though he had no such -meaning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘I have never understood,’ he repeated. ‘I must have been told what was -not true. Now I know: you ought all to have seen that I must be told -sooner or later. Is <i>that</i> true?’</p> - -<p>She was a woman of great resolution, and she freed herself from him, -though his hold was so close. She came round to the other side of the -table, and stood looking at him, with the steady look which had daunted -many a rebel. She said,</p> - -<p>‘You are ill; you don’t know what you are saying. I should not wonder if -you had had a slight sunstroke. You must go to Susie’s room, which is -cool and fresh, and lie down.’</p> - -<p>And then there ensued a moment’s parley, but not with words—with keen -eyes looking into each other across the table. She stood as steady as a -rock, as if she were thinking of nothing but the accidental illness of -which she spoke. But John saw that the lighter part of her, the edge, so -to speak, the line of her black gown, the turn of her elbow, had a -quiver in them. He saw this without knowing that he saw it, as we do in -moments of emotion.</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ he said, ‘it’s no mistake; it’s not illness. It’s what I tell -you. Come with me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> and see him: and if you can say then that it is not -true—— Ah!’ he exclaimed, with a sharp tone of distress, ‘you can’t. I -see it in your face.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sandford did all she could to steady herself still.</p> - -<p>‘To see whom?’ she said. ‘To see——’ Then, with a long-drawn breath, -‘You are trying to frighten me. I know—no one of whom you can be -speaking.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why are you afraid?’ he said.</p> - -<p>She kept standing, gazing at him for a moment more. Then a sort of -shivering seized her, and in a moment all her defences seemed to fail. -She gave him a look of agonised appeal, then came to him like a child -flying from a suddenly realised danger, and dropped down by the side of -his chair.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John,’ she cried, clinging to him, ‘save me. I cannot see him—oh, -no, no! You don’t know what you ask. Say I am dead. Say I am—— Kill me -rather, kill me! It would be kinder. Oh, no, no, no, no! I cannot, I -cannot. I’ll rather die. Save me, John!’</p> - -<p>A horrible dismay crept through and through him as he bent over her, -exclaiming, ‘Mother,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> mother!’ trying to soothe her—but above all a -profound, all-subduing pity. He had his answer; there was no possibility -of misunderstanding what this meant: but the sight of the convulsed and -broken figure clinging to him in utter self-abandonment penetrated to -his very heart. He clasped with his own the hands that held his arm. He -put down his head to the face which, full of mortal terror and misery, -looked up to him imploring his protection. His protection! for her so -strong, so self-sufficing, so immovable. To see her at his feet was more -than he could bear.</p> - -<p>‘Mother, I will; as far as I can, by every means I can. I will, I -will—mother, it breaks my heart to see you. Then it is true, all true?’</p> - -<p>And on the other side there seemed to rise before him another picture: -the man with his smile arguing the question, persuading himself that -anything he had done was, if not wholly right, at least far from being -wrong, that it was the thing most natural to be done—with his air of -mental confusion, yet satisfaction, his amiability, his conciliatory -looks, his humorous self-consciousness, the subtle semi-intoxication<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> -which seemed to have got into his character. These things had made John -smile a short time ago; they had filled him with a sort of compassionate -kindness, an amused toleration of all the ways of this strange specimen -of what human nature could come to. He was not amused or tolerant now. -He thought with shrinking of this new, never-realised, impossible agent -who had come into his life, impossible, yet, alas! real, never to be -ignored again. But the first thing was his mother, his mother who, their -positions reversed in a moment, clung to him with that face full of -panic and anguish, flinging herself upon his protection. She, who was so -strong, the embodiment of self-reliance and authority, to see her as -weak as water, as weak as any poor woman, imploring her son to save her! -He had never in his life till now given her more than the conventional -kiss which their relationship seemed to demand when they met and parted. -But now he held her close and kissed over and over again the white, -agonised face which was pressed against his arm. Presently he raised her -up tenderly and restored her to her seat—where gradually her panic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> -calmed down, and she was able to speak. But it was very terrible and -strange to John that she asked no questions, but took the miserable fact -for granted, as if it were a thing that must have happened, that she had -expected sooner or later, something inevitable in her way.</p> - -<p>‘The only thing is,’ he said, with a sigh of subdued impatience, ‘why -did you not tell me, mother. Why didn’t I know?’</p> - -<p>His question brought the shivering back, but she replied, with an -effort,</p> - -<p>‘How can I tell you? We thought it was better so. I would not have you -exposed to that knowledge. You were so young—and then it might never -have been necessary—it might never have come——’</p> - -<p>‘You mean that he might have died—there?’</p> - -<p>‘It would,’ she said, bowing her head, ‘have been better so.’</p> - -<p>‘Without anyone to stand by him or say a word, without love or succour,’ -he cried. Was there not another side to the question? He thought she -drew herself away from him with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> renewed movement of alarm, and he -rose from her side, too pitiful to be indignant, his heart wrung with -contending thoughts.</p> - -<p>She held out her hands to him with another outcry of terror.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t go! I have no one. Don’t forsake me, don’t leave me alone! John, -John!’</p> - -<p>‘I must,’ he said, ‘if I am to defend you, to save you, as you say. And -then,’ he added, ‘there is more than that: to take care of—him. He -cannot be ignored, mother; at least he has claims upon me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John! Stay with me, don’t go. It has not been for myself I have -feared most, but for you. It was always for you that I have feared, lest -he might get an influence, lest he might—— John, stay with me! Have I -not the best right to you? I that have——’</p> - -<p>‘Distrusted me always, mother. I don’t blame you, but you know it has -been so.’</p> - -<p>She covered her face with her hands.</p> - -<p>‘I am but a feeble, prejudiced woman. I claim no exception. I do wrong -trying to do right, like all the rest, John. I feared, God for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span>give me, -that you might turn out—I thought you were——’</p> - -<p>‘The son of my father,’ he said, with a mingling of sweetness and -bitterness which gave something keen and poignant to the sound of his -voice. ‘And so I am—and so I must prove myself now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE CONVICT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> John rushed away in the manner that has been described, Montressor -and the other were left together looking at each other blankly. They -said nothing so long as the sound of voices without betrayed that he was -still there. They sat listening, looking at each other, in silence, till -the sound of his footsteps had died away upon the stony pavement, and -the quiet street had relapsed into its usual stillness. The look which -they exchanged was like that of two convicted criminals waiting -breathless till the steps of the avenger had died away. Montressor, at -least, had done the young fellow no wrong, but he felt that he had -somehow unconsciously, involuntarily, been the means of bringing trouble -upon him. He felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> like a culprit whispering to his fellow-conspirator -when he said,</p> - -<p>‘May,’ in a low voice, as if he might be overheard, ‘what does it all -mean?’</p> - -<p>May looked up at him from where he sat by the table, leaning his -forehead upon his hands. He shook his head, but he did not make any -reply.</p> - -<p>‘May, we’re old friends. I never turned me back upon ye, though many -did. I’ve always felt an interest in where ye were, and how your time -was running on. I hadn’t much in me power, but many didn’t do that.’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody did it,’ said May. ‘I’m like a martyr, a saint, in that, if in -nothing else, Montressor; everyone forsook me. I had not a soul to -inquire whether I was living or dead, but you.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, May, me poor fellow!—your wife and family——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know what they did? They disappeared, and left no sign of -themselves anywhere. They must have changed their name; they sent a sum -of money for me, but not a word. I came out not knowing if anyone -belonging to me was living or dead, or where they were, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> what had -become of them. My wife may be at the end of the world for anything I -know.’</p> - -<p>‘May be dead,’ said the other, ‘that’s more likely.’</p> - -<p>The convict shook his head.</p> - -<p>‘It must have been she who sent me the money. I had a mind not to take -it at first. Like a bone to a dog to keep him from following you. I -thought for half-an-hour I wouldn’t take it: but after all,’ he said, -with a low laugh, ‘money’s not a bad thing in itself. It’s a make-up for -many things—when you can get nothing else.’</p> - -<p>‘Me poor soul! if you’ve sinned you’ve suffered,’ said Montressor, with -a sigh of sympathy.</p> - -<p>The other laughed again.</p> - -<p>‘There’s something to be said on both sides. What’s sin? It’s a thing -that takes different aspects according to your point of view. And you -may say what’s suffering too? That is a pang to one person which would -be the course of nature to another. My friend Joe never expected to have -any welcome on the other side of the gates at Portland; not he. He was -content to get out of it, to go where he pleased, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> get drunk -comfortably next night with nobody to interfere. He had no ridiculous -expectations. What you call suffering to me was bliss to Joe.’</p> - -<p>Montressor did not know what to reply; nothing in his own life, and not -all the expedients of the theatre could furnish him with a fit answer. -He tried to throw into his face and the solemn shake of his head, -something which he ought to feel.</p> - -<p>‘All other things are according to your point of view,’ the other went -on; ‘but money’s absolute. It’s always a good thing in its way. I took -it, and I consoled myself that on the whole—that on the whole—— But -children have a droll sort of hold upon you,’ he said, quickly, with a -broken laugh. ‘I always felt I’d give a great deal to know what had -become of my little boy.’</p> - -<p>Montressor stretched out his hand, and took hold of May’s across the -table. Both nature and the theatre helped him here.</p> - -<p>‘Me poor friend!’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘He was a delightful little chap. It might be because I was partial, you -know—but I think there never was a finer little chap. I used to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> go -upstairs, when I came in late, and fetch him out of his bed, out of his -sleep, his mother said, and looked death and destruction at me—but it -never did him any harm. I shouldn’t wonder if he remembered it now. I -think I see him in his white nightgown, with his two eyes shining, his -hair all ruffled up, his little bare feet.’ His voice ran off in a low, -sobbing cough. ‘I never saw such a little chap:—never a bit afraid, -though I wasn’t very steady sometimes when I carried him downstairs.’</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Montressor had no stage precedent before him to teach -him how to act in such an extraordinary crisis: but Nature began to make -a hundred confused suggestions, which at first he could scarcely -understand. The stillness seemed to throb and thrill around them, when -this monologue ceased, demanding something from the actor, he could not -tell what; some help which he did not know how to give, scarcely what it -was.</p> - -<p>‘Me poor friend!’ he said once more. ‘You’ve done wrong, but wrong has -been done to you. And this little chap, ye think ye’ve found him? Ye -think he’s turned out to be this—this noble<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> young fellow here? If ye -have an interest in him one way, I’ve got an interest in him in another, -for he saved the life of me chyild—of me Edie,’ the actor added, as in -the theatre he would have said these touching words, ‘who is the prop of -me old age, and the pillar of me house.’</p> - -<p>May, who had been roused out of his musings by the question, fell back -into them as Montressor prolonged his speech, and now made no reply. The -other continued:</p> - -<p>‘Me interest in him is strong. I’d save him any trouble, or disturbance, -or distress—anything that was to humble him, or to shame him, or to put -a stop to him making his way. I’d do that, whatever it might cost -me—that I would, for me chyild’s sake.’</p> - -<p>‘Your chyild?’ said May, with an imitation of the actor’s pronunciation, -which Montressor scarcely perceived, but which tickled the speaker in -the extraordinary lightness of his heart or temper. He laughed, and then -took up the conversation, changing his tone.</p> - -<p>‘A child’s a strange thing. It’s yourself in a kind of way, and yet it’s -nicer than yourself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> The naughtier it is, the nicer it is. It’s endless -fun. I don’t know,’ he said, with a wave of his hand, ‘what the -relationship is when it exists between you and somebody that, so to -speak, is as old as yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Me poor May! but that’s a thing that can’t be.’</p> - -<p>‘Myself, for instance,’ continued the philosopher. ‘I’m father to a -child, not to a man. My little chap, if he had lived, would be—— I -don’t know,’ he added, after a pause, ‘that I’d be very sorry to hear he -had died.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, May!’ said the other, with an outcry of dismay. ‘I wouldn’t -believe ye. Ye can’t mean it, whatever ye may say.’</p> - -<p>‘Why can’t I mean it? My little chap belongs to me, whatever happens. He -had always a smile and a kiss for his father; he was never afraid of me; -he never looked at me stern, like his mother. Now, if he should happen -to have grown into—something like this young fellow here——’</p> - -<p>‘Ye would be a lucky man, not a luckier man in all England: a brave boy -of whom any father might be proud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the vagrant, with a long-drawn breath, which ended in a faint -laugh, ‘and would he, do you think, be proud of me?’</p> - -<p>There was another silence, for Montressor was daunted, and felt once -more that even the resources of his profession failed him; and May went -on, after the telling interval of that pause.</p> - -<p>‘A young fellow that is the pink of respectability, that never took a -drop too much, nor went an inch out of the way in all his life! Lord, -Montressor, think what it would be to be set down for life, to be -overlooked by a fellow like that! to see in his eyes what he thought of -you! I’m a poor wretch that can’t live without a laugh. I couldn’t, you -know, if I were, as people used to say, within the ribs of death. I’ve -made the best of things, and reasoned them out, and got a little fun out -of them wherever I was. I know what would happen well enough. When I -talked to him the other day, I was a sort of a strange beast to him that -he was very sorry for. It nearly brought the tears into his eyes to hear -me talk. I could almost tell you what he was thinking. “Poor beggar!” he -was thinking, “it’s all wrong and horrible, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> if it gives him a -little consolation in his misery——” He was awfully kind.’</p> - -<p>‘He’s the kindest heart I ever came across,’ cried the actor, with an -exaggeration which was very allowable in the circumstances, ‘and liberal -as the day, and never forgets a friend.’</p> - -<p>This May dismissed again with a wave of his hand as something outside of -the question.</p> - -<p>‘He was awfully kind. It looked like what you call the voice of nature -on the stage, Montressor. One doesn’t often come across it anywhere -else. Do you know he picked me up dr—— well, as the policemen say, a -little the worse for liquor—in the street? Think of it, a young man -that is the flower of respectability—that never consorted with the -wicked. And after seeing me unadorned like that, and knowing where I -came from, which Joe did his best to publish, taking me in, establishing -me here, and giving me his papers to copy! By the way, I’m a little -sorry about these papers,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps it was stretching a -point to take them away—convey the wise it call—though they weren’t -his, strictly speaking, you know; he hadn’t paid for them or made any -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>bargain; but still a Puritanical person might say—— It was all that -sophist Joe, a casuist born, though he doesn’t know a rule of logic. And -then the ridiculous name of those engineer people caught my fancy. -Spender & Diggs, don’t you know; it’s grotesque. That tempted me. But, -perhaps, after all, it was stretching a point—the jury might say it was -a breach of trust. I think I’ll go and get them back.’</p> - -<p>‘Me friend!’ cried Montressor, ‘there I see ye as I always liked to see -ye—generous, whatever else.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said May, with some complacency, ‘I flatter myself I always was -that; but few people knew the line to take with me. The talk has always -been about justice. As if justice was a thing to be defined! If every -man had his deserts, which of us would be uppermost, I wonder? Not those -fellows in scarlet that sentence other men, or the pettifogging -shopkeepers on a jury that know about as much of justice—— I think -I’ll go and get those papers back.’</p> - -<p>‘Come on; I’ll go with ye—I’ll stand by ye in a righteous cause!’ cried -Montressor, starting to his feet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Gently,’ said May, looking at him with mild eyes, leaning back in his -chair. ‘It’s too late to-day. I’ll go to-morrow as soon as I’m up; and -as for that old casuist Joe——’</p> - -<p>‘What’s Joe, or any other man,’ said Montressor, ‘in comparison with -what’s generous, me friend, and kind? Here’s a young man, and as fine a -young man as ye’ll see, that’s been good to ye—even if there’s nothing -more in it.’</p> - -<p>‘Even if there’s nothing more in it,’ said May, in his mellow, melting -voice. ‘And there may be more in it, Montressor. There may be little -Johnnie in it, God bless him, my nice little chap!’</p> - -<p>‘Me friend,’ said Montressor, with enthusiasm, ‘there may be little -Johnnie in it, grown up to be a credit to all that belongs to him, to be -the prop of your old age and the blessin’ of your life, like me own -Edie—to thank ye for saving him from ruin, to bless ye——’</p> - -<p>‘Hold hard!’ said the other. ‘Montressor, my good fellow, your eloquence -is carrying you away. Thank me for saving him from ruin! It was hauling -me up for stealing his papers that he was thinking of——’</p> - -<p>‘But not,’ cried John’s advocate, ‘not since<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> he knew—not since it -began to dawn upon him, poor boy——’</p> - -<p>The convict put out his hand—and the actor stopped short in his appeal. -They sat silent once more, looking at each other with thoughts that were -too deep for speech. It was May who took up the broken sentence at last.</p> - -<p>‘Ay,’ he said, ‘when it began to dawn upon him, poor boy, that the man -he had picked up out of the streets, the man he had been so charitable -to, the man he had trusted and that had betrayed him, the convict from -Portland, was his father! Good Lord! Think of this happening to a proud, -virtuous, self-conceited, right-minded, well-behaved young prig like -that!’ He burst into something that sounded like a laugh, and yet was -more miserable than any outcry of despair. ‘Think of that, Montressor,’ -he said again, after a moment. ‘That’s stranger than any of your stage -effects. Poor young beggar! all made up of pride and honour and -rectitude, and all that, and as ambitious as Alexander to boot.’ He got -up for a moment and stood by the table and looked round him. ‘I think -I’ll go away. I think I’ll go right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> away and take myself out of the -boy’s road. What would be the good of torturing him, and making him try -to be respectful to his father? He’d be respectful—and awfully -disagreeable,’ he added, with a lighter laugh. ‘I’ll not wait for him -any longer. I’ll go right away.’</p> - -<p>‘Me noble friend! it’s your true heart that speaks!’ cried Montressor, -seizing him by the arm. ‘Me house is open to you, May, and me -heart—come with me.’</p> - -<p>May looked round upon the room, the fire of his sentiment dying out, the -habitual twinkle coming back to his eye.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a dreadfully respectable little place,’ he said. ‘Tidy—not a -thing out of order. Could you imagine a comfortable pipe and glass here? -And I know how he would look at me. It makes a difference when it’s a -relation. A poor man off the streets is the sort of thing you can be -kind to without derogation—but not a—father. I’m not the sort of -father for a man. A little boy like my little chap wouldn’t mind; but a -fine, respectable young man! And women don’t mind so much—that is, some -women. How<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> old is your Edie, Montressor, and what sort of a girl?’</p> - -<p>‘Sixteen, and an angel,’ said the actor, ‘and dances like one: and she’s -the prop of me house.’</p> - -<p>‘Sixteen—you must take me to Edie. Sixteen’s too young to ask many -questions: and when it dances besides! But you’ve got a wife?’</p> - -<p>‘She’s an angel too, May.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s you that are lucky, Montressor. I wonder if I’ve still got a wife? -She was a sort of an arch-angel, don’t you know, too high-minded, too -grand for the like of me. I wonder if she’s alive. Yes, she must be -alive. Nobody but she would have sent me that money without a word. -Perhaps, Montressor, it’s her he’s gone to consult.’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind, me friend. Let’s think no more of them. Let’s go away.’</p> - -<p>‘It will be so,’ said May, as if speaking to himself; ‘his mother—that -master of his said. Confound all jealous masters, he will cause me a -deal of trouble getting those things back. Ay, the mother! she’ll tell -him everything, she’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> not spare the old riotous good-for-nothing—his -father!’ Here the voice changed. ‘A father like me,’ he added, ‘isn’t -for a young man, Montressor; you’re right in what you say. I’d do for a -boy, a little fellow like my own little chap. He and I could go away -together where nobody ever heard of us. Get a little farm in the -country, perhaps, and a spade, and—that sort of thing: and the poor -little beggar would never know. But for a man that is respectability -itself, and all that—— No, no, you’re right, Montressor. Take me to -your angel that dances, and the other one—what does she do?—perhaps -she sings.’ He burst forth into a tremulous, broken laugh. ‘Two -angels—instead of my own little chap. You’re right, Montressor. Don’t -let us wait for the poor boy that’s coming back broken-hearted. Who -knows, if I weren’t such a good-for-nothing, if I weren’t such a -reckless fool, I might be broken-hearted too.’</p> - -<p>‘Me poor friend!’ the actor cried, ‘as long as I have a roof over me -head, come; it’s but a poor place, but ye’ll be welcome. Montressor’s -door is never shut against trouble and sorrow. And when ye see me Edie -dance—and she’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> dance to ye as if ye were a crowned head—ye’ll -forget everything.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, I’ll forget everything,’ said the other; he added, musing, ‘I’ll do -that easy, whether or no.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FIRST SHOCK.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">John</span> left the hospital, he scarcely knew when, and could not tell how. -He had forgotten, though he never could for a moment forget, that he had -left waiting for him the two men, the man who—— Remember him!—it -seemed to John an impossibility that ever again, even if he lived a -hundred years, he could forget what had been revealed to him that day, -or the look of the man’s face, who suddenly in a moment had lifted the -veil of his own childish life, and made the playful, sweet recollection -which had never died out of his mind an instrument of torture.</p> - -<p>He was conscious when he came out from under the shadow of the great -building in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> which his mother’s life was spent, and found himself on the -bridge with the clear vacancy of the river on each side of him, that the -afternoon had waned, that the sun was going down, and that a sentiment -of the coming evening, with its rest and quietness, was already in the -air. But that a long time had elapsed since in hot haste and excitement -he had crossed that bridge, going to demand from his mother an -explanation of this horror, he could not tell. It was a moment, an age, -he could not tell which. Despair had been in his soul, mingled with a -passionate determination that this thing should not be, when he went: -but he was still and silent as he returned. He had not received either -explanation or proof. His mother’s panic was proof enough on one side, -as were the few words that he had said on the other. These words alone -were unanswerable, unforgettable. If the convict had vanished from his -eyes unnamed, John felt that his fond recollection of that child in his -night-gown was enough to have proved all the terrible story. For who -could know it but himself and one other, himself and his father?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></p> - -<p>His father! What a name that was, full of tenderness, full of honour, a -name that could neither be obliterated nor transferred, nor lost in -forgetfulness. A man’s father is his father for ever, whatever -circumstances may arise. John, the son of——: is not that the primitive -description, the first distinction of every man, the thing which gives -him standing among his fellows? The mother may or may not have a name of -her own, a reputation of her own—what does it signify? John, the son of -Emily Sandford!—oh no, that was not his natural description. He was -John, the son of Robert May. And Robert May was the convict whom he had -picked up in the street, of whom he had been so kindly indulgent, so -contemptuously tolerant.</p> - -<p>John did not follow this train of thought. It gleamed before him as he -went along, that was all; and once more he paused on the middle of the -bridge, remembering how he had done so before at the different crises of -his life. How he had smiled not so many days ago, on his birthday, when -he passed over it and thought of his own boyish despair at seventeen, -and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> impulse he had felt to rush away, and cut all the ties that -bound him, and go off to the ends of the world to struggle out a career -for himself all alone. At twenty-one he had looked out over the same -parapet, on what seemed the same outgoing sails, and had laughed to -himself in high self-complacence and content at that foolish petulance -of his youth. It was not yet three weeks ago—but then he had felt -himself the master of his own fate with prosperity and hope in every -circumstance of his life—the ball at his foot as he had said. Not three -weeks ago! and now here he stood a ruined man, crushed by disgrace and -humiliation, and made to appear as if in his own person he deserved that -doom—the son of his father!—doing what he had always been expected to -do, betraying those who trusted in him. John grasped the stony parapet -and looked—oh no, with no idea of self-destruction—that was an -impossible as it was a contemptible mode of escape: but with a bitter -indignant persuasion that his early plan would have been the best, and -that to have gone away beyond the knowledge of any who had ever heard -his name—away into the un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span>known, fatherless, motherless, -friendless—would have been after all the most expedient for him, the -only wise thing to do.</p> - -<p>A convict: a convict! He went on afterwards setting his teeth, saying -this to himself. It was not a thing that could be thought over calmly: -his thinkings got into mere repetition to himself of these words, which -seemed to circle about him like the flies in the air as he walked on. A -convict! There was not the slightest reason to doubt it: it proved -itself: no man but one could have held in his imagination and -recollection that old innocent picture which had been John’s so long. -The pretty innocent little picture that might have come out of a child’s -book, with its little spice of innocent wrongness, the baby disorder, -the mutinous pleasure of it! It had been sweet to his memory for -years—and now all at once it became horrible, a thing his heart grew -sick to think of.</p> - -<p>John felt that to few people could it be so horrible as it was to him. -Honour and integrity, and noble meaning, and a high scorn of everything -base had been the very air he breathed. He had stood on this foundation -as some people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> stand on wealth, and some on family and connections. The -other pupils in the office had in many cases possessed a foundation of -that other kind: but, as for John, he had always stood high on those -personal qualities, on the fact that no reproach could be brought -against him, and that whatever records were brought to light he never -could be shamed. That very morning when he set out to go to the office, -puzzled about the loss of the copy, but fearing nothing, feeling in all -heaven and earth no shadow of anything to fear, with his papers in his -pocket, there was not so much as that cloud like a man’s hand to warn -him. And yet he had been on the eve of irremediable and ruinous -disgrace. Only to think of it—this morning with a spotless reputation -and every prognostic in his favour: and now—a convict’s son!</p> - -<p>When the soul is overcome in this way with sudden trouble, how -constantly does the sufferer feel that the blow has been administered -skilfully in that way of all others which cuts most deeply. There were -many other kinds of suffering which John could have borne, he thought, -patiently enough—but this! Shame! It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> the defeat of all his -efforts, the keen and poignant contradiction of all he had striven -after. And he was wise enough to know that the first impulse of -indignant resistance and that cry of despair with which a man protests -that he cannot and will not bear what has befallen him—were alike -futile. There it was, not to be got over; and bear it he must, whatever -ensued.</p> - -<p>In this maze of dreadful thought, he came home to the little rooms in -which his virtuous and austere young life had been passed, not knowing -in the least what he was going to do, feeling only that he must -acknowledge the—man—the convict—acknowledge him, and thus give him -more or less the command of his life. John had been in a fever of -excitement and suspense when he went away. He was now calm enough, quite -quiet and resolute, though he had as yet no plan of action. He walked -quickly, absorbed in himself and the consequences to himself, without -thinking of what might have happened on the other side; not able, -indeed, without a sinking sensation, to think of the other side at -all—and pushed open the door which was unlatched. Probably he had left -it so when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> went out, he could not tell. He did not remember indeed -anything about how he had come out. Mr. Barrett’s appearance and every -secondary circumstance had disappeared from his mind; yet he woke, as he -felt the door give way under his hand, to the idea that he must have -left it so. It is not a thing to do in London, not even in a quiet -little street out of the way. Probably he had done it in his madness in -the first shock of his dismay.</p> - -<p>It gave him an extraordinary check in the height of his concentrated -self-control, to find everything empty when he came in. There was no -trace even that anyone had ever been there. The respectable little -sitting-room looked exactly as it had done ever since he knew it—the -chairs put back in their places, the <i>Standard</i> carefully folded upon -the table where he had left it in the morning, no appearance anywhere -that anything had happened since then. He stood still for a moment with -a gasp of dismay, wondering whether he had only dreamt all this, if it -had been a mere nightmare, a feverish vision. Could he but persuade -himself that this was so, that he was the same John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> Sandford he had -been in the morning, with the ball still at his foot! For the moment a -wild hope gleamed across him; but it was only for a moment. He sat down -and stared about him, wondering to see everything the same. All the -same! yet altogether changed, as no external convulsion could have -changed it: an earthquake would have been nothing in comparison. If a -bomb had suddenly exploded upon the decent carpet among the inoffensive -furniture, and shattered the innocent house to pieces, what would that -have been in comparison? These were the ridiculous thoughts that came -across his mind, and almost made him laugh in the first revulsion of -feeling, which was disappointment and relief, and yet was nothing at -all. For what did it matter? The thing had been, and could not be wiped -out. It existed and could never be swept away. Ignore it if he could, -forget it even if he could, there all the same it would be. He could not -be rid of it ever, for ever. He sat silent awhile realising this, and -then rose and went to ring the bell: but, before he could touch it, he -was startled by a tap at the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span></p> - -<p>It was only his landlady who came in—but she had her best cap on, and -looked as if she had something to say. She was embarrassed, and turned -round and round on her finger a ring which was too big for her.</p> - -<p>‘If you please, Mr. Sandford——’ she began.</p> - -<p>‘Yes? I left two—people here. Do you know where they have gone?’</p> - -<p>‘That’s why I made so bold as to come in, Mr. Sandford. I don’t like -saying of it, sir. You have always been a gentleman as I’ve been glad to -have in my house.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. What message did they leave? Where have they gone? I came back -expecting to find them here.’</p> - -<p>‘I never was fond of young gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Short, taking out her -handkerchief. ‘They pay well, as a rule, and they don’t give much -trouble, being out all day: but I’ve always been afraid of them. They’re -chancy-like—you don’t know what they may do, or who they may bring.’</p> - -<p>‘Another time,’ said John, ‘if you’ve anything to say to me—but at -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span>present I want to know what message—— Did they say where they were -going?’</p> - -<p>‘The gentlemen said nothing to me, nor to no one. They just scuttled out -of the house, leaving all the chairs about. I thank my goodness gracious -stars that I can’t see nothing gone: but, Mr. Sandford—I’ve a great -respect for you, sir, as a gentleman that can take care of yourself when -many can’t, and always tidy, and keeps no bad company, leastways never -did till now——’</p> - -<p>John only half understood what she was saying, but he caught at the -words bad company, and replied, with a faint laugh,</p> - -<p>‘I’ve been very particular about that, have I not?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, sir: to do you justice, you’ve been very particular. And that -makes me feel it all the more. Do you know, Mr. Sandford, who’s been out -and in of <i>my</i> house all these days, sitting in my parlour, like he was -the master? Oh, don’t tell me, sir, as you knew all the time! A man as -has just come out of prison, a man as has just served out his time, and -that was fourteen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> years. Mr. Sandford, don’t tell me as you knew!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said John; ‘I knew; but I didn’t know——’ here he stopped and -gazed at her, quieted he could not tell by what sentiment, and feeling -as if the words hung suspended in the air which he ought to have said. -‘I didn’t know he was—my father’—that was what he had intended to say.</p> - -<p>‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ the woman said. ‘You’ve always been most regular, -paying to the day, and always civil, and a pleasure to serve you; but I -can’t do with that sort of visitors in my house. I can’t, sir; I’ve got -my character to think of. I’ve told Betsy, if they come again, to shut -the door in their face. And, Mr. Sandford, it’s a week’s notice, please, -sir. I don’t doubt but you can easy suit yourself. There are folks that -think nothing of their character so long’s they get a good let: and -except for this I haven’t got a word, not a word, to say against you.’</p> - -<p>John stared at her blankly, taking her meaning with difficulty into his -mind: then gradually perception came to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘You want me,’ he said, ‘to go away?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, sir, that’s what it’s come to,’ the woman said, clearing her -throat.</p> - -<p>John kept his eyes upon her—trying to intimidate her, she thought; in -reality, trying to fathom her, to make out what she meant—then he burst -into a sudden laugh.</p> - -<p>‘To go away—for what? Because I am—in trouble, because my life is not -so happy as it has been. Well, it is a good reason enough. Yes, Mrs. -Short, I’ll go.’</p> - -<p>‘You—in trouble, sir!’ The woman’s voice rose into a sort of shriek. -‘Oh, Mr. Sandford, what have you done? you that were always so -respectable. Can’t you put it right? Oh, Mr. Sandford, I never thought -of that. How much is it? Tell your ma, sir, and, whatever it costs her, -she’ll set it right.’</p> - -<p>John found himself strangely amused by all this. It came into the midst -of his misery like a scrap of farce to relieve his strained bosom by -laughter. He knew well enough, too, the phraseology and ways of thinking -of his landlady, and he tried to understand the idea he had suggested to -her imagination; and half to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> keep up the joke, though it was a poor -one, half because he was incapable of explanations, he made no other -reply.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. Sandford,’ she cried again, coming up to him, laying her hand -on his arm, ‘excuse me if I make too free; but tell your ma, sir, for -the love of God. She’ll not let you come to shame for a bit of money. -Oh, no, no, no! I can tell by myself. I never breathed a word of it to -any mortal, but my Tom was once—he was once—I never knew how it could -have been, for a better boy never was. It was some temptation of the -devil, sir, that’s what it was. I saw the boy was miserable, but I -couldn’t get a word out of him—till at last one night I went down on my -knees, and I got hold of him where he was sitting with his head in his -hands, and forced it from him. It was a good bit of money, sir. I’ll not -say but it kept me low a long time: but what was that in comparison with -my Tom’s credit, and his situation, and his whole life? He would have -fled the country next day, if I hadn’t got it out of him that night. -Now, Mr. Sandford, haven’t I a right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> to speak? Oh, for God’s sake, go -out before you sleep and tell your ma!’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Short, you are a good woman. It’s not what you think. I am not in -debt, nor is it money that troubles me. And my mother knows; I’ve told -her. Thank you for speaking. I’ll go as soon as I have found another set -of rooms, or perhaps I may go abroad. But, anyhow, I’ll clear out within -the week since you wish it.’</p> - -<p>‘Your mother knows?’ said Mrs. Short, with a tremble in her voice.</p> - -<p>‘Yes—everything,’ said John, with a smile and a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘And about these—men? If so be as she knows—and you’ll promise to see -them no more——’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t give any promise,’ said John, shaking his head. But he looked -her in the face, in a way, Mrs. Short thought, that those who are -falling into bad company and evil ways never do. He was not afraid to -meet her eye. She shook her head standing over him, feeling that the -problem was one which it was above<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> her power to solve. She said at -last, in a subdued tone:</p> - -<p>‘If you’ve told your ma—she wouldn’t countenance what was wrong. Oh, -Lord, I wish I knew what to do for the best. Mr. Sandford, if it’s -really true that your ma knows, I’ll take back my warning, sir, and -we’ll try again. But oh, you’re young, and you don’t know how quick -things go when you take the wrong road. Oh, Mr. Sandford, though you’ve -had so much of your liberty, you’re very young still!’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so?’ said John, with a faint smile. He felt a hundred: -there seemed no spring of youth or hope left in him. Then he said -suddenly, with an almost childlike appeal to human kindness: ‘I’ve had -no food all day. Go and get me something to eat like a kind soul. I’ve -had no dinner or anything.’</p> - -<p>‘No dinner!’ she said, with an outcry of distress. This seemed something -so dreadful, such a breach of all natural laws, that it swept away every -lesser emotion. And John, too, though he had said this not because he -was hungry, felt a little quiver in his own lip as he realised the -extraordinary fact. He had had no dinner!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> Such a thing had perhaps -never happened before in his whole life.</p> - -<p>In the evening, when he sat alone with no company but his lamp, having -eaten and refreshed himself (and to his own great wonder he was quite -hungry when food was set before him, though he did not think he could -have tasted a morsel), John heard a soft step pass two or three times -close to his window. The street was very quiet after dark, and there was -so much significance in the persistent re-passing, so close as if the -passer-by meant to look in at the sides of his blind, that his attention -was roused. He looked out cautiously, but saw no one. His heart began to -beat high—who could it be but one person? John recollected suddenly the -soft tread, the cautious, carefully-poised foot, as of one used to -moving about steadily, to wearing shoes such as indoor dwellers wear. It -came over him with a sickening sensation that a tread so soft would be -useful to those who lived by preying upon others: and then a bitter -self-reproach seized him: for the unfortunate who had suddenly become so -interesting to him, was not, he said to himself, after all a common -thief that he should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> think such horrible injurious things of him. While -he was watching, listening, he heard all at once a ring at the door. The -stealthy visitor had made up his mind at last. John stood waiting, -breathless, in a miserable confusion of feeling, not knowing how he was -to meet with, how he was to speak to the man who was his father, when -the door opened. But it was not May who came in; it was a figure more -unexpected, more startling, the tall dark shadow of a veiled woman, who, -putting back part of the shade from her face as she entered noiselessly, -presented the grave countenance of his mother, disturbed by unusual -excitement to John’s astonished eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>MOTHER AND SON.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Sandford</span> looked round upon the tidy little sitting-room, but with -eyes of alarm that sought in the curtains and shadows for some -apparition she feared, and not as a woman looks at the dwelling-place of -her child. She had never been here before. Susie had visited him from -time to time with a woman’s interest in his surroundings, but his mother -never. It was all strange to her as if he had been a stranger. She gave -that keen look round which noted nothing except what was its object, -that there was nobody to be seen.</p> - -<p>‘Is he here?’ she said, in a low voice of alarm, without any greeting or -preface. Caresses did not pass between these two either<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> at meeting or -at parting, and there was no time to think even of the conventional -salutation now.</p> - -<p>‘No, he is not here.’</p> - -<p>She sat down with a sigh of relief, and put back altogether the heavy -gauze veil which had enveloped her head.</p> - -<p>‘Is he coming back? Are you—— Tell them to admit no one, no one! while -I am here.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not think you need fear; he is not coming back.’</p> - -<p>She leaned back in her chair with relief. It was the same chair in which -<i>the other</i> had been sitting when John had left the room in the -afternoon. This recollection gave him a curious sensation, as if two -images, which were so antagonistic had met and blended in spite of -themselves.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what I said to you this afternoon; I was so taken by -surprise: and yet I was not surprised. I—expected it: only not that it -should have happened to you. It is better,’ she continued, after a -pause, ‘that it should have happened to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps,’ said John; ‘I may be better able<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> to bear it—but why did I -have no warning that such a thing could be.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, why?’ said she, with a quick breath of impatience—rather as -demanding why he should ask than as allowing the possibility of giving -an explanation. She loosened her long black cloak and put it back from -her shoulders, and thus the shadows seemed to open a little, and the -light to concentrate in her pale, clear face. It is but rarely, perhaps, -that children observe the beauty of their mothers, and never, save when -it is indicated to them by the general voice, or by special admiration. -John had never thought of Mrs. Sandford in this light; but now it -suddenly struck him for the first time that she had been, that she was, -a woman remarkable in appearance, as in character, with features which -she had not transmitted to her children, no common-place, comely type, -but features which seemed meant for lofty emotions, for the tragic and -impassioned. She had not been in circumstances, so far as he had seen -her, to develop these, and her lofty looks had fallen into rigidity, and -the austereness of rule and routine. Sometimes they had melted when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> she -looked at Susie, but no higher aspect than that of a momentary softening -had ever animated her countenance in his ken. Now it was different. Her -fine nostrils moved, dilating and trembling, with a sensitiveness which -was a revelation to her son; her eyes shone; her mouth, which was so -much more delicate than he had been aware, closed with an impassioned -force, in which, however, there was the same suspicion of a quiver. Her -face was full of sensation, of feeling, of passion. She was not the same -woman as that austere and authoritative one whom he had all this time -known. When he returned from giving the order which she asked, that -nobody should be admitted, he found her leaning back in her chair with -her eyes closed, which seemed to make the rest of her face, which was -all quivering with emotion, even more expressive than before.</p> - -<p>‘I thought that I had not told you enough—that you deserved -explanations, which, painful, most painful as they are, ought to be -given to you now. I suppose I told you very little to-day?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing, or next to nothing,’ he replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘I suppose—I wanted to spare myself,’ she said, with a faint quiver of -a smile.</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ cried John, ‘I will take it for granted. Why should you make -yourself wretched on my account? And, after all, when the fact is once -allowed, what does it matter? I know all that I need to know—now.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you are right, John. You know what I would have died to keep -from your knowledge, if it were not folly and nonsense to use such -words. Much, much would be spared in this world if one could purchase -the extinction of it by dying. I know that very well: it is a mere -phrase.’</p> - -<p>He made no reply, but watched with increasing interest the changes in -her face.</p> - -<p>‘It was thought better you should not know. What good could it have done -you? A father dead is safe; he seems something sacred, whatever he may -have been in reality. <i>I</i> thought, I don’t shrink from the -responsibility, that it was better for you; and my father agreed with -me, John.’</p> - -<p>‘Grandmother did not,’ he said, quickly; ‘now I know what she meant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Then,’ she said, ‘now that you know, you can judge between us.’</p> - -<p>She made no appeal to his affection. She was not of that kind. And John -was sufficiently like her to pause, not to utter the words that came to -his lips. He seemed once more to see himself in his boyhood, so full of -ambition and pride and confidence. After awhile he said,</p> - -<p>‘It is much for me to say, but I think I approve. If it is hard upon me -as a man, what would it have been when I was a boy?’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad,’ she said, ‘that you see it in that light;’ and then she -paused, as if concluding that part of the subject. She resumed again, -after a moment: ‘I took every precaution. We disappeared from the place, -and changed our name. My father and mother changed their home, broke the -thread—I left no clue that I could think of.’ She stopped again and -cleared her throat, and said, with difficulty, ‘Does he think he has any -clue?’</p> - -<p>John could not make any reply. How his heart veered from side to -side!—sometimes all with her in her pride and passion, sometimes -touched with a sudden softening recollection of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> the man with his -sophistries, his self-reconciliating philosophy, his good humour, and -his almost childish, ingratiating smile.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see how he can have found out anything. I have never lost sight -of him—that was easy enough. He has had whatever indulgences, or -alleviations of his lot were permitted. I left money in the chaplain’s -hand for him when the time came for his coming out. I did not trust the -chaplain even with any clue.’</p> - -<p>The balance came round again as she spoke, and John remembered how, in -this very room, the same story had been told to him from the other side, -and he had himself cried out, indignantly, ‘Could you not find them? Was -there no clue?’</p> - -<p>He said now, breathlessly, ‘Did you think that right?’</p> - -<p>‘Right!’ She paused with a little gasp, as if she had been stopped -suddenly in her progress by an unexpected touch. ‘Could there be any -question on the subject?’</p> - -<p>‘Did Susie think it right?’</p> - -<p>‘Susie!’ She paused again with impatience. ‘Susie is one of those women -who are all-for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span>giving, and who have no judgment of right and wrong.’</p> - -<p>‘And you never hesitated, mother!’</p> - -<p>‘Never,’ she said, a faint colour like the reflection of a flame passing -over her pale face. ‘Why should I hesitate? Could there be a question? -Alas! Fate has done it instead of me: but could I—I, your mother, bring -such a wrong upon you of my own free will? Don’t you think I would -rather have died—to use that foolish phrase again—I use it to mean the -extremity of wish and effort,—rather than have exposed you to know, -much less to encounter—? Don’t let us speak of it,’ she said, giving -her head a slight nervous shake, as if to shake the thought far from -her. ‘Upon that subject I never had a doubt.’</p> - -<p>‘And yet he was a man, like other men: and his children at least were -not his judges. Most men who have children have something, somebody to -meet them after years of separation.’</p> - -<p>‘Did he say that?’</p> - -<p>‘He did not blame anybody. Knowing nothing about it but that he was a -wretched poor criminal, and that this was his story, I, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> one of -the offenders without knowing, was very indignant.’</p> - -<p>‘You were very indignant!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, mother; I thought it cruel. My heart ached for the man; fourteen -years of privation and loneliness, and not a soul to say “Welcome” when -he came back into the cold world.’</p> - -<p>‘He had money, which buys friends—the kind of friends he liked.’</p> - -<p>She had changed her attitude, and sat straight up, her eyes shining, the -lines of her face all moving, rising up enraged and splendid in her own -defence.</p> - -<p>‘It seemed to have gone to his heart—the abandonment—and it went to -mine, merely to hear the story told.’</p> - -<p>‘I bow,’ she said, ‘to the tenderness of both your hearts! I always felt -there was a certain likeness. I act on other laws:—to bring a convict -back into my family, to shame my young, high-minded, honourable son, -whose path in life promised no difficulty; to shame my gentle child who -has all a woman’s devotion to whoever suffers or seems to suffer; I -don’t speak of myself. For myself, I would die a hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> times (that -phrase again!) rather than be exposed—— No, no, no—nothing, nothing -would have induced me to act otherwise. You don’t know what it is—you -don’t know what <i>he</i> is. Fate, I will not say God, has baffled my plans: -but do not let him come near me, for I cannot bear it. I will rather -leave everything and go away—to the end of the world.’</p> - -<p>John had in his heart suffered all that a proud and pure-minded young -man can suffer from the thought of what and who his father was: and he -had felt his heart sicken with disgust, turning from him and loathing -him. But when his mother spoke thus a sudden revulsion of feeling arose -in him. He could not hear him so assailed. A sudden partisanship, that -family solidarity which is so curious in its operations, filled his -mind. He felt angry with her that she attacked him, though she said no -more than it had been in his own heart to say.</p> - -<p>He replied, with some indignation in the calmness of his words:</p> - -<p>‘I think you may save yourself trouble on that account. I have not seen -him again. When I came back he was gone. They had not waited<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> for me. -They left no message. I don’t know where to find him.’</p> - -<p>‘Gone?’ she said. ‘Gone——?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, mother. He delivered me from the difficulty, the misery in which I -was coming back, with the intention of saying—what it is so hard to say -to a man who—may be one’s—father.’ John grew pale, and then grew red. -The word was almost impossible to utter, but he brought it forth at -last. ‘But he did not wait for my hesitation or difficulties. He -relieved me. They were gone without leaving a sign.’</p> - -<p>‘Who do you mean by they?’</p> - -<p>‘He had a friend,’ John answered, faltering, ‘a friend who is my friend -too. An actor, Montressor.’</p> - -<p>‘Montressor!’ said Mrs. Sandford, with something like a scream. Then she -covered her eyes suddenly with her hand. ‘Oh, what scenes, what scenes -that name brings back to me! they were friends, as such men call -friendship. They encouraged each other in all kinds of evil. Montressor! -and how came he to be a friend of yours?’</p> - -<p>‘It is an old story, mother: I daresay you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> have forgotten. It was -entirely by chance. Susie knows. I will make a confession to you,’ he -said, with a sudden impulse. ‘I was very unhappy, and full of resentment -towards everybody——’</p> - -<p>‘Towards me,’ she said, quietly, ‘I remember very well. That was the -time when you said I was Emily, and would not have me for your mother.’</p> - -<p>She smiled at the boyish petulance, as a mother thus outraged has a -right to smile: and perhaps it was natural she should remember it so. -But it was not the moment to remind him. He smiled too, but his smile -was not of an easy kind.</p> - -<p>‘I was altogether wrong,’ he said, ‘I confess it. When I met this man, I -called myself—by the name which seemed to come uppermost in that whirl -of trouble. I said I was John May.’</p> - -<p>She was silent for a time, not making any reply, her anger not -increased, as he thought it would be: for, indeed, her mind was too full -to be affected by things which at ordinary times would have moved her -much.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘And so,’ she said, after a time, ‘that was how he found you out. I will -not call it fate—it seems like God. And yet, for such a childish, small -offence, it was a dreadful penalty. Poor boy! you thought to revenge -yourself a little more on me—and instead you have brought upon your own -head—this——’</p> - -<p>In the silence that followed—for what could John reply?—there came a -slight intrusion of sound from the house. Some one went out or came in -downstairs, a simple sound, such as in the natural state of affairs -would not even have roused any attention. It awakened all the -smouldering panic in Mrs. Sandford’s face. She started, and caught John -by the arm.</p> - -<p>‘What’s that? What’s that? It is some one coming—he is coming back.’</p> - -<p>‘No, mother. It is the people below.’</p> - -<p>‘Where is he?’ she cried, huskily, recovering herself, yet not loosing -John’s arm. ‘Where is he? Where does he live?—not here, don’t say he is -here.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know where he lives. He has never told me, and he left no -message, no address.’</p> - -<p>‘No address,’ she said. ‘You don’t know where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> he lives, to stop him, -but he knows where you live, to hold you in his power. I will meet him -in the face when I go out from your door.’</p> - -<p>The horror in her looks was so great that John tried to soothe her.</p> - -<p>‘There is no reason to fear that. He went away, though I had asked them -to wait. Perhaps he will come no more.’</p> - -<p>‘Do me one favour, John,’ she cried, grasping his arm closer; ‘do this -one thing for me. Before he can come home again, before he can find you -out, this very night, if you are safe so long, leave this place. Find -somewhere else to live in. Oh! you shall have no trouble. I will find -you a place; but leave this, leave it now at once. Leave him no clue. -What? he has left you none, you say? Why should you hesitate? Come away -with me, John. For the love of God! and if you have learned to feel any -respect or any pity for your mother—for the poor woman whom once you -called Emily—— John, think what it was to me that you should call me -Emily, that you should refuse me the name of mother. And yet you were my -boy, for whom I had denied myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> that you might take no harm. Oh, if -you have anything to make up to me for that, do it now. Come away with -me to-night, leave this place, let him find no clue, no clue!’</p> - -<p>Something of this was said almost in dumb show, her voice giving way in -her passion of entreaty. She had clasped his arm in both her hands as -her excitement grew. Her breath was hot on John’s cheek. There was -something in the clasp of her hands, in the force of her passionate -determination, that made him feel like a child in her hold.</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ he said, ‘what would be the use? Do you think I could -disappear? If ever that was possible, it isn’t now. Whoever wants to -find me, if not here, will find me at the office, or wherever I may be -working. I can’t sink down through a trap-door into the unknown; that -might be on the stage but not in real life. How could one like me, with -work to do for my living, and employers and people that know me, -disappear?’</p> - -<p>A remnant, perhaps, of John’s own self-esteem, which had been so -bitterly pulled down by the incidents of this day, awoke again. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> was -only the insignificant who could obliterate themselves and leave no -clue. For him to do it was impossible. It was but a melancholy pride, -but it was pride still.</p> - -<p>‘He will not go to the office after you. He knows none of your friends. -If you leave this, and give no address, he will perhaps not seek for -you, for that would be a great deal of trouble. He never liked trouble. -We should gain time at least to think what should be done. John, do what -I ask you! Come away with me to-night. I will manage everything. You -shall have no trouble. John!’</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ he cried, taking her hands into his, ‘at the end, when all is -said that can be said, he is our father, Susie’s and mine. We can’t -leave him alone to perish. We can’t forsake him. Mother, now that I know -the truth, I know it, and there is an end. I can’t put it out of my mind -again. I thought my father was dead, but he is not dead, he is alive. It -can never be put out of sight again. It may be bitter enough, terrible -enough, but we can’t put it out of our minds. There it is—he is alive.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> -He is my business more than anything else. There can be no choice for -Susie and me.’</p> - -<p>She had been trying to free her hands while he spoke. She wrung them out -of his hold now, thrusting him from her.</p> - -<p>‘I might have known,’ she said, trembling with anger and misery, ‘I -might have known! Susie, too. What does it matter that I have protected -you, saved you, guarded you? I am not your business, I or my -comfort—but he—he—— What will you do with him? where will you take -him? If he comes here, the woman of this house will not bear it long, I -warn you. What will you do, John? Will you take him to your village -among the people you care for? Where will you take him? What will you do -with him, John?’</p> - -<p>‘My village?’ John said. And there came over him a chill as of death. -His face grew ashy pale, his limbs refused to support him longer; he -sank into the vacant chair, and leaned his head, which swam, on his two -hands, and looked at his mother opposite to him with eyes wild with -sudden dismay and horror: all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> day long amid his troubles he had not -thought of that. His village! And must he tell this dreadful story -there? and unfold all the new revelations of failure, betrayal, -disgrace—and of how he had no name, and only shame for an inheritance? -Must he tell it all <i>there</i>?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>SUSIE AND HER LOVERS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Susie</span> had been nearly a month in Edgeley, and a new faculty had -developed in her—a faculty that lies dormant for a life long with many -people, and that is impossible to others—the faculty of living in the -country. She had never known what that was. Not only in town, in the -midst of London, but in the strange, rigid, conventional, -severely-regulated life of the great hospital, she had spent all the -most important years of her life, and thought she knew no other way. Had -she been interrogated on the subject, Susie would have said that the -country might be very good for a change—it was, as everybody knew, the -very place for convalescents; where people ought to be sent to get<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> -well: but for those who were well to start with, oh no! This she would -have said in all good faith, in that serene unacquaintance with what she -rejected, which is the panoply of the simple mind.</p> - -<p>But when she got to the country, almost the first morning Susie woke up -in the quiet, in the clear air, and kind, mild sunshine which beamed out -of the skies like a smile of God, and had no stony pavement to rebound -from and turn into an oven—with a soft rapture such as all her life she -had never known before. She had thought she liked the crowd, the stir, -the perpetual call upon her, and what people called the life, which was -nowhere so vigorous, so intent, so full of change, as in town. But in a -moment she became aware that all this was a mistake, and that it was for -the country she had been born. This had been a delightful revelation to -Susie. And there had followed quickly another revelation, which never is -unimportant in a young woman’s life, but which in her peculiar existence -had been somehow eluded: and this was her own possession of that -feminine power and influence of which books are full, but which Susie -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> not seen much of in ordinary life. Sometimes, indeed, there had -happened cases in which a young doctor had somehow been transported -beyond the line of his duties, by some one, perhaps a sister, most -probably a young lady on probation, or one who was playing at nursing, -as some will. And this had been at once wrong, which gave it piquancy as -an incident, and amusing. But such incidents were very rare; people in -the hospital being too busy to think of anything of the kind. Susie had -been, without knowing, the object of one or two dawning enthusiasms of -this description. In one case she had perhaps vaguely suspected the -possibility: but Mrs. Sandford gave neither opportunity nor -encouragement, and the thing had blown over.</p> - -<p>Now, however, it had fully dawned upon her that she herself, tranquil -and simple in early maturity, no longer a girl, as she said to herself, -nor in the age of romance, had come to that moment of sovereignty which -sooner or later falls to most women, notwithstanding all statistics—the -power of actually affecting, disposing of, the life of another. It does -not always turn out to be of profound importance in a man’s life that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> -he has been refused by a certain woman. But for the time, at least, both -parties feel that it is of great importance: and the result of -acceptance, colouring and determining the course of two lives, cannot be -exaggerated. Susie discovered, first with amusement, afterwards with a -little fright, that the visits of Percy Spencer and of Mr. Cattley were -not without meaning. The two curates, who were so different! Their -position gave them a certain right to come, and her position as a -stranger and a temporary inhabitant exempted her, so far, at least, as -she was aware, from the remarks and criticisms to which another young -woman living alone might have been subject. But Susie had nobody to -interfere, no duenna, not even a well-trained maid to say not at home. -These visitors came in with a little preliminary knock at the parlour -door without asking if it was permitted—without any formality of -announcement. The door of the house was always open, and Sarah in the -kitchen would have thought it strange indeed to be interrupted in her -morning work by anyone ringing at the bell.</p> - -<p>A month is a long time when it is passed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> this land of intimacy. -Susie was asked frequently to the rectory, not always with Mrs. -Egerton’s free will—but there are necessities in that way which ladies -in the country cannot ignore: and it was very rarely that a day passed -without a meeting in the village street, if no more—at some cottage -where Susie had made herself useful, but most frequently in her own -little sanctuary, in the parlour so familiar to both these gentlemen, so -much more familiar to them than to her. At first they were continually -meeting there, and their meetings were not pleasant. For Percy did his -best to exasperate Mr. Cattley by a pretended deference to his old age -and antiquated notions, or by the elevation of his own standard of -churchmanship over the mild pretensions of the clergyman who did not -call himself a priest. And Mr. Cattley would retaliate by times with a -middle-aged contempt for boyish enthusiasms, by assuring his young -friend that by-and-by he would see things in a different light.</p> - -<p>After a while, however, they fell into a system, arranging their comings -and goings with a mutual and jealous care in order that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> they might not -meet. And they both gave Susie a great deal of information about -themselves. She sat, and smiled, and listened, not without a subdued -pleasure in that power which she had discovered later than usual, and -which even this mutual antagonism made more flattering. Percy was full -of schemes in which he demanded her interest.</p> - -<p>‘Everything has gone on here in the old-fashioned way,’ he said, ‘in the -famous old let-alone way. Aunt Mary has pottered about: she is the only -one that has done anything. My father never had any energy. He would -have let anyone take the reins out of his hands. And she has done it; -and she has always had old Cattley under her thumb. He has not dared to -say his soul was his own. To see him sit and stare and worship her used -to be our fun when we were boys. Jack must have told you.’</p> - -<p>‘No, never. John saw nothing that was not perfect. He worshipped all of -you, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Some of us too much, perhaps—not me, I am certain,’ said Percy. ‘But -old Cattley was the greatest joke, Miss Sandford. How you would have -laughed!’ (Susie, however,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> did not laugh at all at this suggestion, but -sat as grave as a judge, with her eyes bent on her sewing.) ‘But nothing -could have been more unecclesiastical,’ Percy continued, recovering his -gravity. ‘It was the first thing I had to do in getting the parish into -my hands. Aunt Mary had to be put down.’</p> - -<p>‘Has she been put down?’ said Susie, laughing a little in her turn.</p> - -<p>‘I flatter myself, completely,’ said the young man. ‘She has learned to -keep her own place, which is everything. My father gives no trouble; he -sees how things have been neglected, and he is quite willing that I -should have it all in my own hands. I hope, especially if I have your -help, Miss Sandford, to have the cottage hospital and all the -improvements of which we have talked carried out. If I might hope that -you would set it going——’</p> - -<p>‘But would not that be like your aunt’s interference over again, with no -right at all,’ Susie said.</p> - -<p>‘No one can have any right—save what is given them by the clergy. And -you are not my aunt—very different! How I should love<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> to delegate as -much as is fit of my authority to you!’ He paused a moment, with a sigh -and tender look, at which Susie secretly laughed, but outwardly took no -notice. Then he added: ‘Aunt Mary would have no delegation. She -interferes as if she thought she had a right to do it—a pretension not -tenable for a moment. But to entrust the woman’s part—to find an -Ancilla Domini, dear Miss Sandford, in you!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley was not so lively as this. He would sit for a long time by -the little work-table which had belonged to old Mrs. Sandford, and say -very little. He would sometimes relate to Susie something about her -grandparents, and talk of the pretty old lady with her white hands.</p> - -<p>‘They were here when I first came,’ he would say. ‘I was a little lonely -when I came. I was one of the youngest of an immense family. My people -were glad to get rid of us, I think, especially the young ones, who were -of no great account. And my mother was dead. Edgeley was very pleasant -to me. I was taken up at the rectory as if I had been a son of the -house. And nobody can tell what she—what they all—were to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley coughed a little over the <i>she</i>, to make it look as if it -were a mistake, changing it into <i>they</i>.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Egerton,’ said Susie, with a directness which brought a little -colour to the old curate’s cheek, ‘must have been very pretty then.’</p> - -<p>‘To me she is beautiful now,’ he said, fervently, ‘and always will be. I -am not of the opinion that age has anything to do with beauty. It -becomes a different kind. It is not a girl’s or a young woman’s beauty -any longer, but it is just as beautiful. You will forgive me, Miss -Sandford——’</p> - -<p>‘I have nothing to forgive,’ said Susie, but she said it with a little -heat. ‘I like people to be faithful,’ she added, perhaps indiscreetly.</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley did not answer for some time. And then he said:</p> - -<p>‘I am going away now, and another life is beginning. I have been rather -a dreamer all my life, but I must be so no longer. I begin to feel the -difference. I think, if you will not be offended, that it is partly you -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span>who have taught me——’</p> - -<p>‘I!’ cried Susie, with something like fright. ‘I don’t know how that -could be——’</p> - -<p>‘Nor I either,’ he said, with a smile which Susie felt to be very -ingratiating. ‘You have not intended it, nor thought of it, but still -you have done it. There is something that is so real in you, if I may -say so—a sweet, practical truth that makes other people think.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean,’ said Susie, with a blush, ‘that I am very matter-of-fact?’</p> - -<p>‘No, I don’t mean that. I suppose what I mean is, that I have been going -on in a kind of a dream, and you are so living that I feel the contrast. -You must not ask me to explain. I’m not good at explaining. But I know -what I mean. I wish you knew Overton, Miss Sandford.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Susie, simply, ‘I should like to know it—when do you go?’</p> - -<p>He smiled vaguely.</p> - -<p>‘That is what I can’t tell,’ he said. ‘I should be there now. When do -<i>you</i> go, Miss Sandford?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that either,’ she said, with a blush of which she was -greatly ashamed. ‘I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> suppose I ought to go now: but the country life is -pleasant, far more than I could have thought, after living so long in -town.’</p> - -<p>‘You have always lived in town?’</p> - -<p>‘As long as I can remember,’ said Susie.</p> - -<p>‘That is perhaps what makes one feel that you are living through and -through. It must quicken the blood. Now I,’ said Mr. Cattley, ‘am a -clodhopper born. I love everything that belongs to the country, and -nothing of the town—except——’ he said, and laughed and looked at her -with pleasant, mild, admiring eyes.</p> - -<p>‘You must make an exception,’ said Susie, ‘or you will seem to say that -you dislike me.’</p> - -<p>He shook his head at that with a smile—as if anything so much out of -the question could be imagined by no one. It was all very simple, -tranquil, and sweet, nothing that was impassioned in it, perhaps a -little too much of the middle-aged composure and calm. But Susie liked -the implied trust, the gentle entire admiration and appreciation. It -might not be romantic, perhaps, but she had a feeling that she might go -to Overton or anywhere putting her hand in that of this mild man. If -there was a little prick of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> feeling in respect to Mrs. Egerton, who had -been so long the object of his devotion, that was soothed by the natural -triumphant confidence of youth in its own unspeakable superiority over -everyone who was old: and to Susie at twenty-six (though that, she was -willing to allow, was not very young) a woman of forty-eight was a -feminine Methusaleh, and certainly not to be feared.</p> - -<p>Nothing more had been said; and these two were tranquilly sitting -together; she at her work, he close to her little table, in a pleasant -silence which might have been that of the profoundest calm friendship, -or the most tranquil domestic love. And it might have ended in nothing -more than was then visible—a great mutual confidence and esteem: or it -might end at any moment in the few words which would suffice to unite -these two lives into one for all their mortal duration. But as they sat -there silently, in that intense calm fellowship, the ears of both were -caught by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching, so quick, so -precipitate, that it was not possible to dissociate them from the idea -of calamity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley lifted his head and looked towards the door; Susie -involuntarily put down her work. She thought of an accident, in the -semi-professional habit of her thoughts, and her mind leaped naturally -into the question where she could find bandages and the other -appliances? while he, whose duty took another turn, instinctively felt -in his breast-pocket for the old well-worn Prayer-book, from which he -was never separated. Then there was a clang of the open door, pushed -against the wall by some one entering eagerly. And the next moment the -parlour door burst open, and Elly appeared—Elly with her eyes very wide -open and shining, her mouth set firm, a wind of vigorous and rapid -movement coming in with her, disturbing the papers on the table. The -curate jumped up in alarm, with a cry: ‘Elly, what is the matter?’ and a -changing colour. Susie thought the same as he did—that something must -have happened at the rectory, and rose up, but not with the same -eagerness as he.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you are here, Mr. Cattley,’ said Elly, with an impatient wave of -her hand. She was breathless, scarcely able to get out the words,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> which -ran off in a sort of sibilation at the end. Then she sat down hastily, -and paused to take breath. ‘It was Susie,’ she went on, with a gasp, -‘that I wanted to see.’</p> - -<p>‘I will go away,’ said the curate, ‘but tell me first that nothing is -wrong—that nothing has happened.’</p> - -<p>Elly took a minute or two to recover her breath, which she drew in long -inspirations, relieving her heart.</p> - -<p>‘Since you are here,’ she said, ‘you may stay, for you have known -everything. Nothing wrong? Oh, everything is wrong. But nothing has -happened to Aunt Mary, if that is what you mean.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley grew very red, and cast a glance at Susie, who on her part -sat down quickly, silently, without asking any question, which had its -significance. Perhaps she only felt that, as there was evidently no need -for bandages she could not have much to do with it, either; perhaps—but -it is unnecessary to investigate further. For Elly added, immediately,</p> - -<p>‘I have got a letter from Jack, which I don’t understand at all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>She had recovered her breath. There was an air of defiance and -resolution upon her face. She drew her chair into the open space in -front of Susie, and challenged her as if to single combat.</p> - -<p>‘I want to know,’ she said, ‘from you—I don’t mind Mr. Cattley being -there, because he knows us both so well, and has been in it all along. I -want to know, from you—is there any reason, any secret reason, that he -could find out and did not know before, that could stand between Jack -and me?’</p> - -<p>Susie looked at her with an astonished face, her mouth a little open, -her eyes fixed in wonder. She did not make any reply, but that was -comprehensible, for the question seemed to take her altogether by -surprise.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think you understand me,’ said Elly, plaintively, ‘and I’m sure -I don’t wonder. <i>You</i> know, Mr. Cattley, at least; Jack went away full -of his great scheme which was to make him rich, which was to make Aunt -Mary’s opposition as much contrary to prudence as it was to—to good -sense and—everything,’ cried Elly, ‘for of course the only drawback in -it, as everybody must have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> seen with half an eye, was that I was not -good enough for him, a rising engineer, with the finest profession in -the world! However, we were engaged all the same. People might say not, -but we were—in every sense of the word—I to him and he to me!’</p> - -<p>Her face was like the sky as she told her tale, now swept by clouds, now -clearing into full and open light. She grew red and pale, and dark and -bright in a continued succession, and kept her eyes fixed with mingled -defiance and appeal on Susie’s face.</p> - -<p>‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘for you must know—is there anything that Jack -could find out that would change all that in a moment? What is there -that he could find out that would make him think differently of himself -and of every creature? Can’t you tell me, Susie? You are his only -sister; you must know, if anyone knows. What is it? What is it? Mr. -Cattley, her face is changing too. Oh, for goodness sake, make her tell -me! If I only knew, I could judge for myself. Make her say what it is!’</p> - -<p>The clouds that came and went on Elly’s face seemed suddenly to have -blown upon that wind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> of emotion to Susie’s. After her first look of -wonder, she had given the questioner a quick suspicious troubled glance. -Then Susie picked up her work again and bent her head over it, and -appeared to withdraw her attention altogether. She went on working in an -agitated way a minute or two after this appeal had been made to her. -Then she suddenly raised her head.</p> - -<p>‘What could he have found out? How should I know what he could find out? -What was there to find out?’</p> - -<p>‘These are the questions I am asking you,’ cried Elly. ‘Here is his -letter. I brought it to show you. It is a letter,’ cried the girl, -‘which anybody may see, not what anyone could call a love-letter. I -suppose he has found out, after having spoken, that he did not—care for -me as he thought.’</p> - -<p>‘Elly,’ said the curate, ‘I know nothing about it—but I am sure <i>that</i> -is not true.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you should see the letter,’ she cried, with a faint laugh. The -clouds with a crimson tinge had wrapped her face in gloom and shame. -Then she paused and put her hands to her eyes to hide the quick-coming -tears. ‘Why should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> one be ashamed?’ she said. ‘I was not ashamed -before. It was I who insisted before; for I was quite sure—quite -sure—— And now what am I to think? for he has given me up, Susie, he -has given me up!’</p> - -<p>Susie kept her head bent over her work.</p> - -<p>‘Because,’ she said, ‘of something he has found out?’</p> - -<p>‘Because of—yes—yes. Read it, if you like—anyone may read it. Because -he thought his father was dead and he finds out now that he is alive; -but what is his father to me? No father can make a slave of Jack, for he -is a man. What have I do with his father, Susie?’</p> - -<p>Susie’s work served her no longer as a shield. It dropped from her -hands: she was very pale, everything swam before her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, what is it—what is it—<i>what is it</i>?’ cried Elly, clapping her -hands together with a frenzy of eagerness and anxiety and curiosity, -which resounded through the silence of the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>JOHN’S LETTER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> letter which had been received that morning, and had thrown the -rectory into the deepest dismay ran thus:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind"> -‘<span class="smcap">Dearest Elly</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>‘After all that we have said and hoped, I am obliged to come to a -pause. What I have to tell you had better be said in a very few -words. I have always believed that my father was dead, that he died -when I was a child. I have suddenly found that he is alive. His -existence makes an end at once of all the hopes that were as my -life. I must give you up, first of all, because you are more -precious than everything else. Whatever may happen to me; whatever -I do; whether I succeed, as is very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> little likely, or fail, which -is almost sure now, I never can have any standing-ground on which -to claim you. I must give you up. This revolution in my life has -been very sudden, and I dare not delay telling you of it—for -nothing can ever bridge over the chasm thus made. I will explain -why this is, if you wish it, or if anyone wishes it: but I would -rather not do it, for it is very, very painful. All is pain and -misery—I think there is nothing else left in the world. Elly, I -daren’t say a word to you to rouse your pity. I ought not to try to -make you sorry for me. I ought to do nothing more than say God -bless you. I never was worthy to stand beside you, to entertain -such a wild dream as that you might be mine. I can never forget, -but I hope that you may forget, all except our childhood, which -cannot harm.</p> - -<p class="rt"> -‘J. M. S.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>‘Now what,’ said Elly, facing them both defiantly, ‘what does that -mean?’</p> - -<p>Susie had read it too, at last, though at first she had refused to read -it. Did she not know in a moment what it meant? For her there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> could be -no doubt. Since she had grown a woman; since she had learned how things -go in this world, and how difficult it is to conceal anything, there had -always been a dread in Susie’s mind of what would happen when John found -out. This had only come over her by moments, but now, in the shock of -the discovery, she believed that she had always thought so, and always -trembled for this contingency. She said to herself now that she had -always known it would happen, which was going further still—always -known—always dreaded—and now it had come. She did not need to read the -letter, but she had done so at last, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. -She gave it back to Elly without a word. Of course she had known what it -must be. Of course, from the first moment, she had known.</p> - -<p>‘Susie,’ Elly said again, ‘tell me, what does it mean?’</p> - -<p>‘You know him well enough,’ Susie said, falteringly; ‘you know he would -not say what was not true.’</p> - -<p>‘But if this is true,’ said Elly, ‘then he has said before what was not -true. What can it be to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> that his father is living? I do not -mind—his father is nothing to me. I don’t want to hurt you, Susie, but -if his father swept the streets, if he—oh, I don’t want to hurt you!’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t hurt me,’ said Susie, with the smile of a martyr. ‘Oh, Miss -Spencer, let us leave it alone. You see what he says. He will explain, -if you insist, but he would rather not explain. Don’t you trust him -enough for that?’</p> - -<p>‘Trust him!’ said Elly. ‘I trust him so much that, if he sent me word to -go to him and marry him to-morrow, I would do it. I trust him so that I -don’t believe it, oh, not a word,’ the girl cried. And then she threw -herself upon Susie, clasping her wrists as she tried, trembling, to -resume her work. ‘Oh, tell me, what does he mean—what does he mean? -What can his father be to me?’</p> - -<p>‘Elly,’ said Mr. Cattley, ‘don’t you see how hard you are upon her? Take -what Jack says, or let him explain for himself. I will go to him and get -his explanation, if you wish—but why torture <i>her</i>?’</p> - -<p>Elly shot a vivid glance from the curate to Susie, who sat with her head -bent over her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> work, her needle stumbling wildly in her trembling hands.</p> - -<p>‘You think a great deal of sparing her, Mr. Cattley. Aunt Mary says——’</p> - -<p>Elly was in so great distress, so excited, so crossed and thwarted, so -uncertain and unhappy, that to wound some one else was almost a relief -to her. But she stopped short before she shot her dart.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure she says nothing that is unkind,’ said the curate, firmly; -but his very firmness betrayed the sense of a doubt. Mrs. Egerton had -been his idol all this time, and was he going to desert her? Could she -by any possibility think that he was deserting her? His own mind was too -much confused and troubled on his own account to be clear.</p> - -<p>Susie kept on working as if for life and death, not meeting the girl’s -look, tacitly resisting the clasp of her hands, grateful when Mr. -Cattley distracted Elly’s attention and relieved herself from that -urgent appeal, yet scarcely conscious whence the relief came or what -they were saying to each other to make that pause. Her needle flew along -wildly all the time, piercing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> her fingers more often than the two edges -which she was sewing together: and in her mind such a tumult and -conflict, half physical from the flutter of her heart beating in her -ears, making a whirr of sound through which the voices came vaguely, -carrying no meaning. Elly’s appeal to her, though so urgent, was but -secondary. The thing that had happened, and all the questions involved -in it: how he had come to light again, that poor father whom Susie had -been brought up to fear, yet whom she could not help loving in a way; -how John had found out the family tragedy; what it would be to her -mother to be brought face to face with it again, and to know that <i>he</i> -knew it, whom it had been the object of her life to keep in ignorance. -To think that all this had happened, and nobody had told her; that she -had not known a word of it till now, when that intimation was -accompanied by this impassioned appeal for explanation. Explanation! how -could Susie explain? The very suggestion that another mode of treatment -was possible from that which her mother had adopted, and that, instead -of concealing it at any risk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> John was setting it up between him and -those he loved most, identifying himself with it, even offering -explanation if necessary, was appalling to Susie.</p> - -<p>It was only when she had a moment of silence to consider, that it all -came upon her. She did not know what they were saying, or desire to -hear. She felt by instinct that some other subject had been momentarily -introduced, and was grateful for the moment’s relief to think. But how -could she think in the shock of this unexpected revelation, and with all -that noise and singing in her ears? She came to herself a little when -the voices ceased, and she became aware that they were looking at her, -and wondering why she did not say anything—which was giving up her own -cause as much as if she confirmed the truth. She looked up with eyes -that were dim and dazed, but tried to smile.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot tell you what John means,’ she said; ‘how could I, when I -don’t know what he means? He has—very high notions: and he -thinks—nothing good enough for you. We have no—pretensions—as a -family.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Susie tried very hard to smile and look as if John were only very -scrupulous, humble-minded, feeling himself not Elly’s equal in point of -birth.</p> - -<p>‘We’ve gone over all that,’ cried Elly, with an impatient wave of her -hand. ‘And what does it matter—to anybody, now-a-days? It is all -exploded; it is all antiquated. Nobody thinks of such a thing now. And -Jack knows well enough. Besides, it is ridiculous,’ cried the girl; ‘he -is—well, if you must have it, he is conceited, he is proud of himself, -he is no more humble about it than if he were a king. Do you think I’m a -fool not to know his faults? I’ve known them all my life. I like his -faults!’ Elly said.</p> - -<p>And then there was again a pause. Nobody spoke. It became very apparent -to both these anxious questioners—to Elly, when the fumes of her own -eager speech died away, and to Mr. Cattley, who was calmer—that Susie -did not wish to make any reply, that she knew something of which this -was the natural consequence, something which she was determined not to -tell, something which was serious enough to justify John’s letter, which -showed that it was no fantastic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> notion on his part, but a reality. -Susie herself was dimly aware, even though she had her eyes on her work -as before, that they were looking at her with keen examination, and also -in her mind that they were coming to this inevitable conclusion: but -what could she do?</p> - -<p>‘Every family,’ she said, faltering, ‘has its little secrets, or at -least something it keeps to itself. I don’t know that there is more with -us than with other people——’ But her voice would not keep steady. -‘The only thing,’ she went on, sharply, feeling a resource in a little -anger, ‘is that people generally—keep these things to themselves;—but -John, it seems that John——’ And here she came to a dead stop and said -no more.</p> - -<p>Elly had grown graver and graver while Susie spoke. Her excitement and -impatience to know, fell still, as a lively breeze will sometimes do in -a moment. Her eyes, which Susie could not meet, seemed to read the very -outline of the drooping figure, the bent head, the nervous stumbling -hands so busy with work which they were incapable of doing. Elly’s face -settled into something very serious. She flung her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> head back with the -air of one taking a definite resolution.</p> - -<p>‘In that case,’ she said, lingering a little over the words in case they -might call forth an answer, ‘in that case, I think I had better go.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley, much perplexed, went with her to the door. He went up the -street with her, his face very grave too, almost solemn.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t do anything rash, Elly,’ he said. ‘We know Jack. I—I can’t think -he is to blame.’</p> - -<p>‘To blame!’ Elly said, with her head high, as if the suggestion were an -insult. Then she added, after a moment, ‘Yes, he’s to blame, as -everybody is that makes a mystery. Whatever it is, he might have known -that he could trust me; that is the only way in which he can be to -blame.’</p> - -<p>Susie had thrown away her work in the ease of being alone. It was an -ease to her, and the only solace possible. She put her arms on the table -and her face upon them, and found the relief which women get in tears. -It is but a poor relief; yet it gives a sort of refreshment. Her burning -and scorched eyelids were softened—and the sense of scrutiny removed, -and free<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span>dom to look and cry as she would, was good. But the thronging -thoughts that had been kept in check by that need of keeping a steady -front to the world, which is at once an appalling necessity and a -support to women, came now with a wilder rush and took possession -altogether of her being. How was it that he had appeared again, that -spectre whom she had feared since she was a child, yet for whom by -moments nature had cried out in her heart, Papa! She, like John, only -knew the child’s name for him, only remembered him as smiling and kind; -though she had learned, as John never had learned, that other aspect of -him which appeared through her mother’s eyes. Susie knew something, -embittered by the feeling of the woman who had gone through it all, of -the long and hopeless struggle that had filled all her own childhood, -and of which she had been vaguely conscious—the struggle between a -woman of severe virtue, and an uprightness almost rigid, and a man who -had no moral fibre, yet so many engaging qualities, so much good humour, -ease of mind, and power of adapting himself, that most people liked -him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> though no one approved of him: the kind of father whom little -children adore, but whom his sons and daughters, as they grow up, -sometimes get to loathe in his incapacity for anything serious, for any -self-restraint or self-respect.</p> - -<p>His wife had been the last woman in the world to strive with such a -nature, and perhaps the horror that had grown in her, and which she had -instilled unconsciously into Susie’s mind, was embittered by this -knowledge. Susie knew all the terrible story. How the woman had toiled -to keep him right, to convince him of the necessity of keeping right, to -persuade him that there was a difference between right and wrong: and -she knew that this always hopeless struggle had ended in the misery and -horror of the shame which her proud mother had to bear, yet would not -bear. All this came back to her as she lay with her head bowed upon her -arms in the abandonment of a misery which no stranger’s eye could spy -upon. And he had come back? and how was mother to bear it? And how had -John found it out? And why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> did he not hide in his own heart, as they -had done, this dreadful, miserable secret? She, a girl, had known it and -kept it a secret, even from her own thoughts, for fourteen years. Day -and night she had prayed for the unfortunate in prison, but never by -look or word betrayed the thing which had changed her life at twelve -years old, and sundered her from others of her age, more or less -completely ever since. It had separated her so completely that till now -Susie had never lived in entirely natural easy relations with other -girls, or with men of her own age. There had always been a great gulf -fixed between her and youthful friendship, between her and love. This -had been somehow bridged over here in this innocent place—and now! Oh, -how would mother bear it? Oh, how had John found it out?</p> - -<p>She was in the midst of these confused yet too distinct and certain -trains of recollections and questions, when her solitude and ease of -self-abandonment were suddenly disturbed. She had not heard any step, -any token of another’s presence until she suddenly felt a light touch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> -upon her bowed head, and on her arm. Susie had given herself up too -completely to her own thoughts to be capable of considering the plight -in which she was. She started and looked up, her face all wet with her -weeping. She thought, she knew not what—that it was he perhaps, the -terror of the family, though she remembered nothing of him but kindness; -or John, it might be John, come to fetch her, to claim her help in these -renewed and overwhelming troubles. She started up in haste, raising to -the new-comer her tell-tale face. But it was not John, nor her father. -It was Mr. Cattley who was standing close by her with his hand touching -her arm. He had touched her head before, as she lay bowed down and -overwhelmed. His eyes were fixed upon her, waiting till she should look -at him, full of pity and tenderness.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. Cattley!’ she cried, in the extremity of her surprise. He only -replied by patting softly the arm on which his hand lay.</p> - -<p>‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is wrong. Tell me what is wrong. The secret, -if it is a secret, will be safe with me: but you cannot bear this -pressure; you must have some relief to your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> mind. Susie—I will call -you what Elly calls you for once—do you know what I was going to say to -you when she came?’</p> - -<p>Susie raised her tear-stained face to his with a little surprise, and -said no.</p> - -<p>‘So much the worse for my chances,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘You -might have divined, perhaps; yet why should you? I was going to tell you -a great many things I will not say now—to explain——’ Something like -a blush came upon his middle-aged countenance. ‘This is not the time for -that. I was going to ask you if you would marry me. There: that is all. -You see by this that I am ready to keep all your secrets, and help you -and serve you every way I can. It is only for this reason that I tell -you now. Will you take the good of me, Susie, without troubling yourself -with the thought of anything I may ask in return? There, now! Poor -child, you are worn out. Tell me what it is.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. Cattley,’ she cried, and could say no more.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind Mr. Cattley: tell me what troubles you—that is the first -thing to think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> of. I guess as much as that it is something which poor -Jack has found out, but which you knew. I will go further, and tell you -what I guessed long ago—that this poor father has done something in -which there was trouble and shame.’</p> - -<p>He had seated himself by her and taken her hand, holding it firmly -between his, and looking into her face. Susie felt, as many have felt -before her, that here all at once was a stranger to whom she could say -what she could not have said to the most familiar friend.</p> - -<p>‘We hoped,’ she said, in a low voice—‘we thought—that nobody knew.’</p> - -<p>‘Not John?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John last of all; that was why he lived here; that was why we left -him, mother and I, and never came, and let him think that he was nothing -to us. He thought we had no love for him. He said to mother once that -she was not his mother. Ah!’ cried Susie, with a low cry of pain at that -recollection, ‘all that he might never know.’</p> - -<p>‘And now he has found out: how do you think he can have found out?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Susie shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘The time was up; we knew that, and we were frightened, mother and I, -though there seemed no reason for fear, for we had left no sign to find -us by. Oh, I am afraid—I was always afraid—that to do that was unkind. -He was papa after all; he had a right to know, at least; but mother -could not forget all the dangers, all that she had gone through.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose, then,’ said Mr. Cattley, with a little pressure of her hand, -‘his name was not your name?’</p> - -<p>Susie looked at him with something like terror. Her voice sank to the -lowest audible tone.</p> - -<p>‘His name—our real name—is May.’</p> - -<p>The curate had great command of himself, and was on his guard; -nevertheless she felt a thrill in the hand that held hers: Susie -sensitive, and prepared to suffer, as are the unfortunate, attempted to -draw hers away—but he held it fast; and when he spoke, which was not -for a minute, he said, with a movement of his head,</p> - -<p>‘I think I remember now.’</p> - -<p>The grave look, the assenting nod, the tone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> were all too much for her -excited nerves. She drew her hand out of his violently.</p> - -<p>‘Then if you remember,’ cried Susie, ‘you know that it was disgrace no -one could shake off. You know it was shame to bow us to the dust; that -we never could hold up our heads, nor take our place with honest people, -nor be friends, nor love, nor marry, with such a weight upon us as that; -and now you know why John, poor John, oh, poor John!’</p> - -<p>She hurried away from the table where the curate sat, regarding her with -that compassionate look, and threw herself into her grandfather’s chair -which stood dutifully by the side of the blank fireplace where Elly and -John had placed it. Her simple open countenance, which had hid that -secret beneath all the natural candour and truth of a character which -was serene as the day, was flushed with trouble and misery. Life seemed -to have revealed its sweeter mysteries to Susie only to show her how far -apart she must keep herself from honest people, as she said. And her -heart cried out—almost for the first time on its own account. Her -thoughts had chimed in with her mother’s miseries, but had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> not felt -them, save sympathetically; now her own time had come—and -John’s—John’s, who knew nothing, who must have discovered everything at -one stroke; he who was not humble, nor diffident, but so certain of -himself and all that he could do. What did it matter for anybody in -comparison with John?</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley did not disturb her for some time. He let that passion wear -itself out. Then he went and stood with his back to the fireplace, as -Englishmen use, though it was empty.</p> - -<p>‘And now,’ he said, ‘that we understand, let us lay our heads together -and think what can be done.’</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing to be done,’ said Susie. ‘Oh, Mr. Cattley, go away, -don’t pity me. I can’t bear it. There is only one thing for me to do, -and that is to go home to mother and John.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not pity you,’ he said, ‘far from that. You have got the same work -as the angels have. Why should I pity you? It hurts them too, perhaps, -if they are as fair spirits as we think. But I am going with you, Susie: -for two, even when the second is not good for much, are better than -one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands and looked up at him with a gaze of entreaty.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t,’ she cried, ‘don’t mix yourself up with us! Oh, go away to the -people who are fond of you, to the people who are your equals. What has -a clergyman to do with a man who has been in prison? Oh, never mind me, -Mr. Cattley. I am going to my own belongings. We must all put up with it -together the best way we can.’</p> - -<p>‘Susie,’ he said, softly, ‘you are losing time. Don’t you know there is -an evening train?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE DARKNESS THAT COULD BE FELT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">John</span> rose late next morning to a changed world. It no longer seemed to -be of any importance what he did. For the first time in his life he got -up in the forenoon and breakfasted as late as if he had been a -fashionable young man with nothing to do. He was not fashionable indeed, -but there was no longer any occupation that claimed him. He had nothing -to do. He flung himself on his sofa, after the breakfast, which he had -no heart to touch, had been taken away. What did it matter what he did -now? He had not slept till morning. He was fagged and jaded, as if he -had been travelling all night. Travelling all night! that was nothing, -not worth a thought. How often had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> he stepped out of a train, and, -after his bath and his breakfast, rushed off to the office with his -report of what he had been doing, as fresh as if he had passed the night -in the most comfortable of beds! that was nothing. Very, very different -was it to lie all night tossing, with a fever swarm of intolerable -thoughts going through and through your head, and to rise up to feel -yourself without employment or vocation, to see the world indifferently -swinging on without you, when you yourself perhaps had thought that some -one train of things, at least, would come to a dead stand without you. -But there was no stoppage visible anywhere. It was he who had stopped -like a watch that has run down, but everything else went on as before.</p> - -<p>He had written his letter to Elly on the previous night. Thus everything -was crammed into one day—his bad reception at the office, his discovery -of the man who had thus injured him, who had injured him so much more -sorely by the mere fact of existing; and the conclusion of his early -romance and love-dream. He had not sent the letter yet. He had kept it -open to read it in the morning, to see whether anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> should be added -or taken away. So many words rose to his lips which appealed -involuntarily to Elly’s love, to her sympathy—and he did not want to do -that. He wanted to be quite imperative about it, as a thing on which -there could be no second word to say. Elly could not call a convict -father. She must never even know of the man who was John’s destroyer, -though he was at the same time John’s father. He shuddered at the words, -notwithstanding that a great melting and softening was in his heart -towards the strange, loosely-knitted intelligence which seemed to drift -through everything—life, and morality, and natural affection—without -feeling any one influence stronger than the other, or any moral -necessity, either logical or practical. To be brought thus in all the -absolutism of youth, and in all the rigid rightness of young -respectability, face to face with a man to whom nothing was absolute, -and the most fundamental principles were matters of argument and -opinion, gave such a shock to John’s being as it is impossible to -estimate. It seemed to cut him adrift from everything that kept him to -his place. Had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> discovery been uncomplicated by anything at the -office, John might have felt it differently. It would, in any way, have -taken the heart out of him, but it would not, perhaps, have interfered -with his work. But now everything was gone.</p> - -<p>He flung himself down on the sofa, and lay like a man dead or disabled; -like a man, he said to himself, who had been drunk overnight, who had -come out of dissipation and vice with eyes that sickened at the light of -day. And this was John Sandford, who never in his life before, having -unbroken health and an energetic disposition and boundless determination -to get on, had spent a morning in this way. He almost believed, as he -threw himself down on the sofa and turned his eyes from the light, that -he actually had been drunk (using the coarsest word, as if it had been -of one of the navvies he was thinking) overnight.</p> - -<p>And yet his heart was soft to the cause of it all. A feeling which had -never been awakened in him, even when she was most kind, by his mother, -which seemed out of the question so far as she was concerned, stole in -with a softening influence indescribable, along with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> image of that -disgraced and degraded man, insensible as he seemed to his own disgrace. -That easy smile of cheerful vagabondage was the only thing that threw a -little light upon the unbroken gloom. It had amused John in the vagrant -soul which he had taken under his wing; it was awful and intolerable to -him in his father: yet unconsciously it shed a sort of faint light upon -the future, from which all guidance seemed removed. What was he to do in -that changed and terrible future, that new world in which there was no -longer any one of all the hopes that had cheered him? Elly was gone, as -far as the poles apart from him and his ways, and so were his ambitions, -his schemes. There remained to him in all the world nothing but his -mother and sister, who had deceived him, and whom he could now serve -best by going away out of their ken for ever: and this poor criminal, -abandoned by all—the convict who had no friend but Joe, who had wronged -and cheated John, and brought him to the dust, but who yet was the only -living creature that belonged to him and had need of him now.</p> - -<p>He was roused from his first languor of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> despair (though that was a -condition which could not have lasted long in any circumstances) by the -entrance of the little maid to lay the table for another meal. Another -meal! Was this henceforward to be the only way in which his days should -be measured? But no, he said to himself, jumping up with a sort of fury -from his sofa, that could not be, for there would soon be nothing to get -the meals with in that case: at which thought he laughed to himself. -Laughing or crying what did it matter, the one was as horrible as the -other.</p> - -<p>‘Missis said as she thought perhaps you would be wishing your dinner at -’ome to-day,’ said the maid, startled by his laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said John; but, when the food came with its -savoury smell, he found out, poor fellow, that he was hungry, very -hungry, having eaten nothing for—he did not recollect how long, weeks -it seemed to him, since that peaceful breakfast before anything had gone -wrong. At twenty-one a young man’s appetite cannot be quenched by -anything that may happen. He ate, he felt enormously, eagerly, and -afterwards he was a little better.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> When that was over he drew himself -together, and his thoughts began to shape themselves into a more -definite form.</p> - -<p>In his profession, young as he was, he had already seen something of -emigration, and had contemplated it more familiarly than is usually the -case. He had been in America. He knew a little of the works that were -going on in various distant regions, and he had that confidence which -belongs to a skilled workman in every class, that he must find -employment wherever he went. Anyhow, wherever he might decide to go, the -world would be a different world for him. He would be cut off from -everything with which he was acquainted or which was dear to him, as -much in London as at the Antipodes. Therefore, the wiser thing was to go -to the Antipodes, and make life outside at once as strange as the life -within.</p> - -<p>It would, perhaps, ease the horrible annihilation of every hope if -everything external were changed, and he could imagine that it was -Australia or New Zealand, and not some awful fate that had done it. And -now henceforth he would have one companion—one poor compan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span>ion from -whom he could never cut himself free—his father! who would have to -stand to him in place of a family, in place of Elly, over whom he would -have to watch, whom he must never suffer to steal from his side, whom -perhaps he might guide into some little tranquil haven, some corner of -subdued and self-denying life where he might wear out in safety. But, -alas! John recoiled with a thrill of natural horror, first at the -circumstances, then at himself, for building upon that. His father was -not old as fathers ought to be. He was not more than fifty, and, though -this is old age to persons of twenty-one, the young man could not so far -deceive himself as to see any signs of failing strength or life drawing -towards its close in the man whom the austerity of prison life had -preserved and purified, and whose eye danced with youthful elasticity -still. He was not like an old father of seventy or eighty, the -conventional father whom fiction allots to heroes and heroines, and who -is likely to die satisfactorily at the end, at least, of a few years’ -tenderness. No. May would live, it might be, as long as his son. This -was an element of despair which it was impos<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>sible to strive against, -and equally impossible to confess; even to his own heart John would not -confess it. It lay heavily in the depths of that heart, a profound -burden, like a stone at the bottom of a well.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said to himself, with a little forlorn attempt to rouse up and -cheer himself on, ‘to the Antipodes!’ where perhaps there might be -something to do, of as much importance, or more, than draining the -Thames Valley: where the primitive steps of civilisation had yet to be -made, and he might be of use at least to somebody. That was one thing to -the good at least, to have decided so much as that. And then he seized -his hat and went out. There was still one preliminary more important -than any other, and that was to find the cause of all this ruin, the -future object of his life. Everything else must go; his scheme—he had -thrown down all his papers on the office-table, and left them there, for -what was the good of them now? his love? He took up finally the letter -to Elly, and with his teeth set dropped it into the box at the first -post-office he came to. Having done this he stood all denuded, naked, as -it were, before fate,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> and went forth to seek him who was the cause of -it all—his father the convict; the man whom it would be his duty to -serve and care for, who was all that was left to him in life.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, if it had not been for this failure in respect to his work, for -the betrayal of which he had been the victim, and the prompt discovery -and consequent abandonment of him by his employers which had followed, -John would not have been so certain of his duty. He never could have -taken his mother’s advice and altogether forsaken the father whom he had -so unfortunately discovered. But he might have been induced to conceal -May’s existence, and to make some compromise between abandoning him -altogether and burdening his life with the perpetual charge of him, as -he now intended. The conjunction of circumstances, however, had narrowed -the path which lay before him. Never, in any case, could he have kept -Elly to the tie, which as yet was no tie, when he discovered the -disgrace which overshadowed his family; and with both his great motives -withdrawn—his love and his ambition—what did there remain for John? To -enter with his reputation as a social traitor the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> service of Spender & -Diggs? As soon would a soldier in the field desert to the enemy. And -what, then, remained for him to do? Australia, where there was a fresh -field, and where not only he but the poor burden on his life, the soiled -and shamed criminal, would be unknown, and might begin again.</p> - -<p>The first thing, however, was to find him; but John had not much doubt -on that point. After a little pause of consideration he set out for -Montressor’s lodgings, feeling convinced that the actor would at least -know where he was to be found. The Montressors, notwithstanding their -return to fortune through the success of Edie, were still in the old -rooms in one of the streets off the Strand, up three pairs of stairs, -the same place in which John had supped upon hot sausages on his first -night in London. How strange it was that an incident so trivial should -have altered the colour of his whole life! For had he not, in his boyish -folly, called himself John May to that chance friend, it might so have -been that this discovery never would have been made. It was with a sigh -that John remembered, shaking his head as he went up the long dingy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> -stairs, that after all this had nothing to do with it, and that it was -something more uncalled-for still, an accident without apparently any -meaning in it, which had brought him directly in contact with his -father, on the first night on which that contact was possible. The very -first night! He had to break off with a sort of satirical smile at this -accidental doom, when the door was opened by Mrs. Montressor, who looked -at him with a startled expression, and not the welcoming look with which -on his rare visits she had always met him.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. May!’ she said; then paused and added, hurriedly, ‘Montressor -is out, and I am just going to fetch Edie from the rehearsal. I am so -sorry I cannot ask you to come in.’ He thought she stood against the -door defending it, and keeping him at arm’s length.</p> - -<p>‘It does not matter,’ he said. ‘I had—no time to come in. I wanted to -find out from Montressor the address—of a friend.’</p> - -<p>‘What friend?’ said the woman, quickly.</p> - -<p>‘He must have told you, Mrs. Montressor, of the discovery we made: that -his friend May<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>—was—my father: no more than that: though it had been -kept from me and I didn’t know.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, Mr. Sandford,’ cried Mrs. Montressor, ‘that was a mistake, I am -sure. You see I know your real name. I found it out long ago, but I -never told Montressor. No, no, Mr. Sandford, it is all a mistake. He is -no relation of yours.’</p> - -<p>A sudden gleam of hope lit up John’s mind, but faded instantly.</p> - -<p>‘He is my father,’ he said, ‘there can be no mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, no,’ said the woman, beginning to cry. ‘It can’t be, it shan’t -be; there is none of that man’s blood in you.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush,’ said John, ‘he is my father. Tell me where I can find him; that -is the best you can do for me, Mrs. Montressor.’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t, then,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. I will tell you frankly he has -been here, but I would not have him; I know him of old: and where he is -now I don’t know.’</p> - -<p>‘But Montressor knows.’</p> - -<p>‘Very likely he does. I can’t tell you. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> is out. I don’t know where -he has gone. I’ll give you no information, Mr. Sandford, there! If he -has the heart of a mouse in him, he will never let you know.’</p> - -<p>‘And what sort of a heart should I have if I let him elude me?’ said -John. ‘No, if you would stand my friend, you must find him out for me. I -am going abroad. I am leaving England—for good.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it for good?’ said Mrs. Montressor. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s for bad, my -poor boy.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope not,’ said John, steadily, ‘at all events it’s all the good that -is left me. And I cannot go without him. Tell Montressor, for God’s -sake, if he wants to stand my friend, to bring my father to me, or send -me his address.’</p> - -<p>It took him some time to convince her, but he succeeded, or seemed to -succeed, at last. And he went away, not at all sure that the object of -his search was not shut up behind the door which Mrs. Montressor guarded -so carefully. He resumed his thoughts where he had dropped them, as he -went down again the same dark and dingy stairs; they seemed to wait for -him just at the point at which he had left off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> The very first night! -he almost laughed when he thought of it: and then he began to account to -himself for that meeting, following up the course of events to the time -of his first acquaintance with Joe. He went back upon this carelessly -enough, remembering the man in the foundry at Liverpool, and before -that, before that—— John started so violently that he slipped down -half-a-dozen steps at the bottom of the stairs, and a sort of stupor -seized his brain till he got into the open air and walked it off.</p> - -<p>There came before him like a picture the evening walk with Mr. Cattley, -the tumult outside the ‘Green Man,’ the half-drunken tramp who wanted -some woman of the name of May. Good God! was he so near the discovery -then, and yet had no notion of it! He remembered the very attitude of -the man sitting with his back against the wall, maundering on in his -hoarse tones, half-drunk, muddled yet obstinate, about his mate’s wife -and the news he was bringing. Could it be his mother—<i>his mother!</i> the -fellow was seeking all the time: and had he got thus closely on the -scent from some vague information about the change of habitation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> made -by his grandparents? How strange all seemed, how impossible, and yet how -natural! And to think of the boy going gravely by, disgusted yet -half-amused, with his lantern, looking down from such immense heights of -boyish immaculateness upon the wretched, degraded creature who played -the helot’s part before him, and called forth his boyish abstract -protest against the cruelty of the classic moralists who thus essayed to -teach their children by the degradation of others. It all came before -him, every step of the road, the aspect of everything, every word almost -that had passed between Mr. Cattley and himself. And all this time it -was himself whom Joe was seeking, and at last—at last—his message had -come home! He seemed to be gazing at the village street, and that first -act of the tragedy played upon it, with a smile to himself at the -strange, amazing, incredible, yet still and always so natural—oh, so -natural—sequence of events—when all of a sudden his heart seemed to -turn that other corner under the trees, and, with a rush of misery, it -came back to him that Elly, Elly, was and could be his Elly no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span></p> - -<p>He never knew very well how it was that he spent the rest of this long -afternoon and evening. He walked about, looking vaguely for some trace -of his father, or Montressor, or Joe, but saw nothing of them, as may be -supposed; and then he went from shop to shop of the outfitters, where -emigrants are provided with all they want on their voyage: and finally -went back to his rooms, and, in the blank of his misery, went to bed, -not knowing what to do.</p> - -<p>And thus, in the changed world, in the darkened life, the evening and -the morning made the first day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Another</span> followed; and then another morning after that.</p> - -<p>Night and day were much the same to John in this dreadful pause of -existence. Sometimes he dozed in the day, in utter weariness and -sickness of heart, after coming in from an unsuccessful search for some -trace of any one of those three men who had so changed the course of his -life; often lay awake through the slow and terrible night, in which all -manner of miserable thoughts came crowding about him like vultures, so -that he did not know which was most insupportable, the night or the day. -The wondering looks of the people in the house, the shaking of the head -of his landlady, Mrs. Short,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> who saw all her fears realised, and made -no doubt whatever that John had been tempted, and had fallen, and had -been dismissed by his employers with obliquy, did not affect him, for he -was unconscious of them. He sought no comfort from his mother, who was -the only confidant he could have had—indeed, he sought comfort nowhere. -He did not recognise the possibility of any succour existing for him at -all.</p> - -<p>Again he had slept late on the morning of the third day. By that means -he seemed to cheat time of one little bit of its tedious, soul-consuming -power. The day was a little less long when he thus managed to steal an -hour from it, and this habit, which the troubled and sorrowful share -with the idle and dissipated, easily steals upon those who are -unemployed and unhappy. He felt that he hated the light, as so many have -done before him. To turn his face to the wall, to close his eyes upon -it, to push as far from him as possible the new day, in which there -could be nothing but evil, was a little gain in the dearth of all -comfort. John was roused with a start by some one knocking at his door, -to bid him make haste and come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> downstairs, where two ladies were -waiting for him.</p> - -<p>‘Missis wants to know if she’s to send up breakfast for them?’ the -serving maiden inquired.</p> - -<p>John, in his consternation, did not answer the question. Two ladies! -After a while, he said to himself, while he completed his dressing -hastily, that no doubt his mother had sent for Susie, and that together -they had come to plead with him to abandon the unfortunate, to keep -everything secret. John smiled at himself in his glass at the thought. -Abandon him! The poor culprit, the convict, the deserted father had been -more magnanimous than they were, and had fled from him not to shame him. -So much the less could his son abandon him. He prepared himself to tell -them his resolution as he finished his dressing. Susie would cry, -perhaps, but neither of them would care much: why should they care? He -had never entered actively into their lives. It would be nothing to them -to lose him. They might, indeed, have been proud of him, had he come to -be, as he believed he should so short a time ago, a successful and -famous engineer. But pride and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> love were two different things. They -might plead as they pleased, but he would not give in to them. What, -preserve this hideous secret, cheat the world into supposing them an -honourable family? That might have been, perhaps, had John been entering -upon a successful career, accompanied by the plaudits of the office, and -with many things depending upon him. But now when nothing depended upon -him, when he was considered to have justified all prejudices against him -(of which now he knew the cause) and to be himself a traitor—<i>now</i> that -he should shrink from doing his duty! No, no! His father after all was -everything that belonged to him, as he was the only thing that belonged -to his father.</p> - -<p>He went through all this with himself as he prepared to go downstairs. -And he threw himself into their thoughts. He fancied how, as they heard -his step coming down, they would say over to each other the arguments it -would be best to use, and the mother might perhaps suggest to Susie to -be more loving than usual to win him. It was very likely that she would -do that. And when John opened the parlour door<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> and found himself in a -moment caught in some one’s arms, the first flush of consciousness in -his mind was that to the letter the programme was being carried out.</p> - -<p>But that flush of consciousness was very brief. The next was different, -it was rapture and anguish mingled together. For the arms that were -flung about him, the face that was put close to his was not his sister’s -but Elly’s—Elly’s! Good heavens!</p> - -<p>‘Don’t!’ he cried, putting her away from him, putting away her hands -from his shoulders. ‘Don’t! for the love of God.’</p> - -<p>‘Jack!’ she cried, ‘Jack!’ and kissed him determinedly, openly, without -a blush, flinging off those deterring hands.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jack, my boy, what does all this mean?’ said another voice behind. -Had he gone mad, or was he still in a dream? For this mocking spirit -seemed to speak with Mrs. Egerton’s voice. The whole world seemed to -swim in his eyes for a moment, and then things settled back into their -place, and he found himself standing in his parlour with two ladies -indeed, but the ladies were Elly and her aunt. Mrs. Egerton was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> seated -in the only easy-chair in the room, the one which May the convict had -preferred, and Elly stood all eagerness and life, like a creature made -out of light, in the full shining of the morning sun which came in at -the end window, and which had caught and translated itself bodily to her -hair.</p> - -<p>John stood apart, like the shadow of this lovely group, which was of the -light, as he said to himself, and could not have too much shining upon -it, while he was of the dark and could do nothing but retire into the -gloom. He turned towards Mrs. Egerton with a trembling which he could -not disguise.</p> - -<p>‘Why,’ said he, ‘did you come here? Why have you let her bring you—Why -have you brought her here?’</p> - -<p>‘Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, ‘what does it all mean? Do you think anyone -who cared for you as we do could be satisfied with what you said?’</p> - -<p>‘But you—didn’t much care for me,’ he said, feeling stupified and -unable to face the real issue. She made a little gesture of impatience.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘I know you have some reason to speak. I was against you: but that’s a -very different thing from this. Do you think your friends could give you -up when you were in trouble, my poor Jack? Oh! no! no——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, no, no,’ echoed Elly. ‘Not even papa. He said that we must come -and see——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ cried Mrs. Egerton, ‘my brother himself. He said what of course -anybody would say, that to let you go off and make a martyr of yourself -for some unknown reason was out of the question. He would have come -himself, but you know he never goes anywhere.’</p> - -<p>‘And Mr. Cattley offered to come,’ said Elly, ‘but we felt that we were -the right people to come, Jack.’</p> - -<p>He stood stupified listening to the alternation of the voices, both so -soft in their different tones, both—in view of him, and in the ease and -everyday circumstances of his lodging, and his appearance, which was -little changed—beginning to feel at their ease too, and as if nothing -could be so terrible as they had supposed. It relieved their minds -beyond description to see everything in the usual order of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> place in -which people were living. No man could be in the depths of a catastrophe -who had his breakfast-table neatly set out and the <i>Standard</i> folded by -his plate. ‘He has given us a fright for nothing,’ Elly had said. The -appearance of John indeed gave them a moment’s pause, for he was very -pale, and his eyes had a worn and troubled look which it was impossible -not to remark. But two days’ illness, or the failure of his scheme, or -any other trifling (as these ladies thought) matter, would have sufficed -to do that. As he did not say anything, being too much confused and -disturbed and miserable and (almost) happy, to do so, Mrs. Egerton went -on, in her calm voice, the voice of one who was accustomed to no -infringements of the happy ordinary course of life,</p> - -<p>‘Now that we are here, don’t you think you might give us some breakfast, -Jack? We have travelled most part of the night.’</p> - -<p>He went and gave the necessary orders without a word—which, however, -was not necessary, for Mrs. Short herself met him in the passage, -bringing up the ‘things.’ The sight of these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> visitors had at once set -John right in his land-lady’s mind. Mrs. Sandford, who was his ma, was a -dignified functionary, and worthy of every respect, but she was still -only Mrs. Sandford of the hospital: whereas the ladies who thus arrived -with their travelling-bags in the early morning were ladies to their -finger-tips, and had every sign of belonging to that class of the -community, more respected than any other by the masses, which has -nothing to do. And before he could remark upon the extraordinary -position, the horror and the ridicule of it, John found himself sitting -down to table with his cheerful guests, who were delighted to see that -there was really nothing much to make any fuss about, and put off the -explanation till after breakfast with the greatest composure, making -themselves in the meantime very much at home.</p> - -<p>Elly pried about at all his treasures, found out her own photograph in -the place from which he had not removed it, shut up in a little velvet -shrine—and opened his books, and took out a rose-bud from among the -little knot of flowers which one of John’s pensioners<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> brought him -regularly. She gave him a bright glance of love and sauciness, and put -the rose into her bodice. Poor John! How happy it would have made him a -week ago: what an aggravation of misery it was now: an anguish made more -poignant by this mingled sweetness, which broke the poor fellow’s heart.</p> - -<p>They breakfasted, almost gaily, making even John for a moment or two -forget himself. And then when the meal was over the examination began.</p> - -<p>‘Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, ‘it has been a great comfort to see -you—though you wrote in such a solemn tone—looking fairly well upon -the whole. Tell us, what made you do so, now?’</p> - -<p>Elly sat down beside him, leaning against his chair.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, tell us, Jack,’ she said.</p> - -<p>She was smiling, almost laughing, at his paleness, at his trouble, with -not the faintest notion what it was, or indeed that it could be anything -worthy, she would have said, of ‘the fright he had given them.’ Her -attitude, her smile, the way in which she looked at him, so tender, so -saucy, so frank, overwhelmed poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> John. He got up hurriedly, leaving -her astonished, deserted in the place she had taken, and confronted them -both in an access of self-controlled, yet impatient misery, with his -back to the wall.</p> - -<p>‘I will tell you,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘if you insist upon it. I said so -in my letter. It would have been kinder to let me go away, and take no -notice. But if you insist I must explain.’</p> - -<p>‘Insist! Explain!’ said Mrs. Egerton. ‘How is it possible not to insist -when you speak as you have done. Did you expect us really to let you -break off everything and disappear without a word?’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Egerton,’ said poor John, ‘you said there was no engagement to be -allowed between Miss Spencer and me.’</p> - -<p>Elly got up at this amazed, and went and stood by him, and touched his -arm with her hand. ‘Oh, Jack!’ she said, with a reproach which went to -his heart.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said Mrs. Egerton, ‘that is true. I said I would not hear of it; -but that is very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> different from suddenly breaking it off on the man’s -side, without a word.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, very, very different!’ cried Elly. ‘Aunt Mary, he never, never -could intend to use me so.’</p> - -<p>It was all a sort of sweet trifling to Elly, a sort of quarrel to be -made up, though without any of the harshness of a quarrel—a little -misunderstanding that could only end in one way.</p> - -<p>And he stood leaning up against the wall facing them, with his sad -knowledge in his heart, knowing that it was no trifle that stood between -them, but a great gulf which neither could cross. He stood and gazed at -them for a moment, his eyes and his heart and every member of him -thrilling with insupportable pain.</p> - -<p>‘I will tell you if you wish it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to tell you, -but if I must, I must. I told you that I always believed my father to be -dead. He was nothing but a vision to me. I remember him only as a child -does. I believed he was dead.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Egerton, interested, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> mildly, while Elly continued -to look up, smiling into his face.</p> - -<p>‘I remember, too,’ she said, ‘how he used to come in and take you out of -bed.’</p> - -<p>The unfortunate young man shuddered. It was so dreadful to think of this -now, and to think that the cause of all his trouble remembered it too, -as the one distinct thing when so much was blank. And to see the -untroubled curiosity in their faces, so unexpectant of the thunderbolt -which was about to fall!</p> - -<p>‘The reason he has been out of sight so long is—that he has been in -prison for forgery for fourteen years. He came out about a month since, -and I found him the first night, but without knowing who he was. He is a -convict, and has been in prison for fourteen years.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Egerton uttered a low cry as if somebody had struck her. As for -Elly, she did not understand, but looked at him again with growing -wonder, as if she knew only from his face, not from what he said.</p> - -<p>‘It is easily explained, isn’t it?’ he said, with a strange smile; ‘not -much trouble, that is how it is. I knew nothing, no more than you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> did, -or I should be inexcusable. Now you have heard it, take her away. Oh, -Mrs. Egerton, now you know—spare me, and take her away.’</p> - -<p>‘Jack! God bless you, my poor boy. Oh, Jack, I never dreamt of this. God -help you, my poor boy.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I hope He will: for nobody else can. It is like that in the -prayer-book—“Because there is none other that fighteth for us.” Take -her away. She can’t understand. Oh, Mrs. Egerton, for God’s sake, take -her away.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Jack; yes, I will; that is, I will if I can. Elly, do you hear -him? He does not want us; not now, not at this dreadful moment. Oh, my -poor, heart-broken boy! Oh, God help you, my poor Jack!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Egerton got up, as if she intended to go away; but then she stopped -and held out her hands to him, and finally drew him to her, and gave him -a kiss upon his pale cheek, bursting out into crying as she drew him, -resisting, into her arms.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my poor boy! oh, my poor boy! how are you to bear it?’ she cried.</p> - -<p>Oh, if he could but have put his head on her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> motherly bosom, and cried -like a child, as even a man may do, like one whom his mother comforteth! -But John, with Elly on the other side of him, resisted, and would not do -this. He said, hoarsely:</p> - -<p>‘I can’t bear it—I must bear it: only take her away.’</p> - -<p>‘Elly—Elly! do you hear? We make it worse for him. You and I must not -make anything worse for him. Elly, let us go away.’</p> - -<p>‘It seems as if I had nothing to do with all this,’ said Elly, with -trembling lips. ‘Yet I thought it was me you loved, and not anyone else. -I thought——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Elly!’ Mrs. Egerton cried, weeping, ‘don’t you see you are -torturing him? Oh, I wish I knew what to do! Elly, don’t you see you are -breaking his heart? Come away, and leave him to himself. It is perhaps -the kindest thing we can do.’</p> - -<p>Elly did not move. She did not cry, though her lips quivered. She stood -up straight by his side, as if nothing would ever alter her position.</p> - -<p>‘You may go,'she said, ‘Aunt Mary. You are not so very near a relation: -but I am not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> going, not a step. What, just when he wants me? Just when -it is some good to have some one to stand by him. I shall not move, not -a step. I am in my proper place. Is that all you know of Elly, Jack?’</p> - -<p>There had been a faint tapping for some time at the door, which in the -excitement and agitation of the little company within had gone on -without notice. They were all too much absorbed to be conscious of it, -or, if conscious, to think of it as appealing in any way to them. To -John it had been a faint additional irritation, a something which -penetrated through all the rest like a child crying or a door swinging, -nothing that affected himself or made any call upon him. At this point, -however, the patience of the applicant outside failed, the door was -opened softly, and first a head put in, and then the entire person. It -was Mrs. Egerton who first caught sight of this intruder. She dried her -eyes hurriedly and looked, with a hasty attempt to recover her -composure, at the wistful but still cheerful countenance, with a smile -upon it like the smile of a child who has been punished for some fault, -but comes back pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span>pitiatory, with looks intended to conciliate, and a -humble yet not uncomplacent consciousness of being good, and ready to -make amends. A child in such a frame of mind is always amiable, and so -was, to all appearance, the man who stepped softly in, with his hat in -one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. He was scarcely young -enough for the pose, or for the look, or the desire to please and to be -forgiven, and to make all up again, which was in every line of his face. -But to Mrs. Egerton the face was a pleasant one, with a good, <i>innocent</i> -expression, which made her feel that this conciliatory personage could -not be a very great offender. He made her a little bow when he caught -her eye, and seemed to take her into his confidence as he stood there -deprecating, smiling. John did not perceive him till he had come into -the room, and in the same deprecating manner closed the door behind him. -Then he made a step forward, holding out the papers in his hand.</p> - -<p>‘Here,’ he said, and the ladies, watching with sudden interest, were -startled by the bound John made at the sound of this unexpected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> voice. -‘Here are your papers—Mr. Sandford.’ He made a little pause before the -name. ‘I had no right, I believe, to take them away, but at the moment -it did not occur to me in that light. I thought—— ah!—no, no, that is -all—nonsense. Don’t think of it any more.’</p> - -<p>For John had darted towards him, caught him by the arm, and said -‘Father!’ in the midst of the little speech he was making.</p> - -<p>‘No, no,’ he repeated, ‘that is all nonsense. Nothing of the sort, -nothing of the sort. Here are your papers, which is the only thing to -think of. I have brought you—your papers. That is all. I didn’t intend -to disturb you in the midst of your friends.’</p> - -<p>He would have slid out again, or at least he made a semblance of wishing -to slide out, though in reality his eyes were full of curiosity -respecting John’s friends, who on their side gazed at him with an almost -ludicrous dismay. This, at least, was the feeling of Mrs. Egerton, who -stood with a helpless gasp of incredulity and amazement gazing at this -criminal, this untragical, unterrible apparition of whom she had been -thinking a moment before with horror<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> in which no mitigating -circumstance had any part.</p> - -<p>‘I did not think,’ said the culprit, with his deprecating look, ‘that -you would have been at home at this hour. I thought I would find the -room empty when I got here. I had these back from Spender & Diggs last -night. I intended only to leave them—not to disturb you among your -friends.’</p> - -<p>John’s mouth was so dry that he could scarcely speak. He took May by the -arm and almost forced him into a chair.</p> - -<p>‘I did not seek you,’ he said, ‘God knows. It would be better for us if -you had been dead as I thought. But you cannot go away now on any -pretext of disowning who you are. This is my father, Mrs. Egerton. I -have told you who he is and what he is—there’s no more to say. As for -Miss—as for—for Elly—— Oh, my God!’</p> - -<p>He stood holding his father by the arm, but with the other hand he -covered his face. Such a cry of anguish could find no words except in -the inevitable universal appeal which human nature takes its final -refuge in, whatever its misery may be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span></p> - -<p>Even at this moment, however, the comic element, which mixes with almost -every tragedy, came in when it ought least to have shown itself. May -struggled against the detaining hold with a look of injured amiability -and innocent amazement.</p> - -<p>‘I’m not used to be kept by force,’ he said, turning to the elder lady -with that look of taking her into his confidence. ‘He grips me -like—like a policeman. I don’t know what he wants to do with me: to -expose me to ladies who don’t know me: to make you think—— If I’ve -made a mistake, why, there’s your papers again, and all’s right between -us. Let me go.’</p> - -<p>Elly stole round to the other side of the prisoner’s chair.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘I don’t know who you are: but you must stay if -Jack wishes you to stay. He is unhappy, do not cross him now. If you are -his father, we are your friends as well as his.’</p> - -<p>May’s countenance changed. He looked at her with an anxious, furtive -pucker of his eyelids.</p> - -<p>‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘who are you? are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> you—Susie?’ with a shade of -sudden gravity on his face.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Elly, casting at John a glance of radiant defiance, unable -even at that moment to take his rejection seriously. ‘I am—engaged to -Jack.’</p> - -<p>The man who had brought such dismay and misery with him had no lively -sense of shame, but he had occasional perceptions as keen as they were -evanescent. He looked for a moment at the group round him, and divined -all it meant. It was not easy for the quickest wit to find a remedy.</p> - -<p>‘Madam,’ he said, turning to Mrs. Egerton, ‘this young man has been -working too hard, and he is off his head. Take care of him. It’s a -common thing among inventors; take care of him.’</p> - -<p>He settled himself on his chair as if he were about to enter on a long, -peaceable explanation; then, in a moment, with the skill which is -learned among criminals, he snatched his arm from John’s grasp and was -gone. The clang of the door as it closed behind him was almost the first -notice they had that he had escaped.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span></p> - -<p>John was weakened by the sufferings of the past days, and altogether -taken by surprise. He was thrown against the wall, and, for a moment, -stunned by the shock. Mrs. Egerton, half disposed to think the -respectable visitor was right and the young man crazed—half alarmed by -that sudden exit, not knowing what to do—held his hands in hers and -chafed them, bidding some one fetch a doctor, send for his mother, do -something—she knew not what.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FATHER AND CHILDREN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Cattley</span> had quietly taken possession of Susie and her arrangements -from the moment of the agitating conversation which followed John’s -letter to Elly. It could scarcely be said that he had intended to make a -declaration of love to her—though for some time it had been apparent to -him that this was the solution of all the difficulties of that -disruption in his life which he had not himself done anything to bring -about, yet which was natural and necessary, and a change which he could -neither refuse nor draw back from when it came. The sudden rending -asunder of all the bonds that had fashioned his existence for years had -been very painful to the curate. To keep them up un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span>naturally, in -defiance of separation and distance, was all but impossible, and yet to -cut himself finally adrift was an operation which he knew not how to -perform. Susie had given him unconsciously the key to all these -difficulties. Had he remained at Edgeley, leading a somewhat pensive and -unfulfilled, yet happy life, his devotion to Mrs. Egerton would have -been in all likelihood enough for his subdued and moderate spirit. It -was as much out of the question that she should marry him as that the -sky and the fields should effect a union, or any other parallel -unconjoinable things: but there was little occasion for any attempt at -such an alliance, considering that the terms on which they stood, of -tenderest and most delicate friendship, were enough for all -requirements. It is delightful to keep up such a tie when circumstances -permit, and no more strenuous sentiment breaks in—but to break it is a -thing full of embarrassment and difficulty. Scarcely any woman is so -unnaturally amiable as to behold the defection of her servant and knight -without a certain annoyance; it is difficult altogether to forgive that -self-emancipation and disenthral<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span>ment; and on the other hand the very -delicacy and romantic sentiment in the mind of the man which makes such -relations possible fills him with trouble and awkwardness when the -moment comes at which more reasonable and natural ties take the place of -the Platonic bond.</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley had felt the crisis deeply; he had not known how to detach -himself, or what to do with his life when the disruption should have -been made. Susie’s sudden appearance had been an inspiration and a -deliverance to him. He had felt in her the solution of all his doubts. -And now the sudden trouble which had come upon her, and which in his -interest and long affection for John it was so natural he should share, -came in like what he would himself have called ‘a special providence,’ -to make his way more easy. That he should take her, so to speak, into -his own hands, guide her, take care of her, aid her in everything that -could be done for the family at such a crisis, was natural, most natural -to a man of his character, most convenient in a general crisis of -affairs. That he should step into the breach, that he should defend and -help all who were likely to suffer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> that he should manage matters for -any distressed family, and specially help John, and help everybody, was -what all the world expected from Mr. Cattley. It was his natural office. -So that not only Susie but Susie’s troubles came with the most perfect -appropriateness into his life, and afforded him the opportunity of -withdrawing and emancipating himself on the one hand and securing his -own happiness on the other, as nothing else could have done.</p> - -<p>This is not to say that the communication Susie had made to him about -her father had been received by the curate with indifference. It had, on -the contrary, given him a great shock. A convict! That he should connect -himself with such a person—he, a clergyman—a man placed in a position -where all his connections and relationships were exposed to -scrutiny—was a thought which gave him a momentary sensation, -indescribable, of giddiness and faintness and heart-sickness; but the -result of this shock was an unusual one. It made him instantly commit -himself—identify himself with the sufferer; take her up, so to speak, -upon his shoulders and prepare to carry her through life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> and save her -from all effects of this irremediable misfortune. This was not the -effect it would have had on ordinary men; but it was so with Mr. -Cattley. The first thing to be done seemed to snatch up Susie, not to -let it hurt her—not even to let her feel for a moment that it could -hurt her. A convict! He remembered the story faintly when he heard the -name, how it had a certain interest in it, in consequence of the -character of the man, whom everybody liked, although the forger had -ruined his family, and plunged all belonging to him into misery. And to -think now, after so many years, that he himself was to be one of the -people plunged into trouble by this criminal of a past time! The shock -went through his nerves and up to his head like a sudden jar to his -whole being. But there was perhaps something in his professional habit -of finding a remedy for the troubles brought under his eye, the quick -impulse of doing something, which becomes a second nature with the -physicians of the spirit as well as with those of the body, which helped -him now. And then it afforded him the most extraordinary and easy -opening out of a difficult conjunction of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> affairs; that had to be taken -into account—as well as the rest.</p> - -<p>The result was that Mr. Cattley took Susie to London to her mother, and -at once, without anything—or at least very little more—said, took his -place as a member of the family, threatened with great shame and -exposure through the return of the disgraced father, whom some of them -had hoped never to see again, and some had no knowledge of. Nobody but a -clergyman could have done this so easily, and even Mrs. Sandford, with -all her pride and determination to share the secret with no one, could -not refuse the aid of a cool head and sympathetic mind in the emergency -in which she found herself placed. She was too much pre-occupied by her -great distress to have much leisure of mind to consider this sudden new -arrival critically as Susie’s suitor. At an easier moment that question -would no doubt have been discussed in all its bearings—whether he was -not too old for Susie; whether he was not very plain, very quiet; -whether they had known each other long enough; whether they suited each -other: all these matters would have afforded opportunity of discussion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> -and question. But in the present dreadful emergency there was no time -for any such argument.</p> - -<p>‘Susie has accepted me for her husband,’ Mr. Cattley said (which, -indeed, Susie had scarcely done save tacitly), ‘what can I do to help -you?’ There seemed nothing strange in it. It was his profession to have -secrets confided to him, to help all sorts of people. Even Mrs. Sandford -could not resist his quiet certainty that their affairs were his, and -that he could be of use. And he had all the strength and freshness of a -new agent, impartial, having full command of his judgment. He had none -of John’s stern and angry Quixotism and determination not to lose hold -again of the father who was a disgrace to him, that fiercest development -of duty—neither did he share the horror and loathing of the wife for -the man who had betrayed and disgraced her. He was of Mrs. Sandford’s -mind that the culprit should be kept apart, that no attempt should be -made to reinstate him in the family; and he was of John’s mind that May -could not be abandoned. He agreed and disagreed with both, and he was -sorry for all—at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> once for the family driven to horror and dismay by -such a sudden apparition, and for the unfortunate criminal himself, thus -cut off from all the ties of nature.</p> - -<p>Susie took no independent action in the matter. She left it now to him, -as she had left it all her life to her mother, feeling such questions -beyond her, she who was so ready and so full of active service in the -practical ways of life. She left the decision to those who were better -able to make it, but with an altogether new and delightful confidence -such as she had never known before; for Mr. Cattley was far more -merciful than anyone who in Susie’s experience had ever touched this -painful matter. Mrs. Sandford had desired nothing so much as never to -hear the name of the husband through whom she had suffered so many -humiliations and miseries again; but Mr. Cattley would not permit the -natural right to be shaken off, or the claims of blood abandoned. Susie -turned to him with a gratitude which was beyond words in her mild eyes. -Her mother’s panic and loathing were cruel, but he was ever kind and -just. She looked at him with that sense that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> was the best of created -beings, which it is so expedient for a wife to possess. Even love does -not always carry this confidence with it, but Susie was one of the women -who will always, to the last verge of possibility, give that adoration -and submission to the man upon whom their affections rest. And happily -she had found one by whom, as far as that is possible to humanity, they -were fully deserved.</p> - -<p>They set out together in the morning sunshine, after many arguments and -consultations with Mrs. Sandford, to seek John in his lodgings and -settle if possible upon some common course of action. But, though so -many painful questions were involved, these two people were able to -dismiss them as they walked along together. They seemed to step into a -land of gentle happiness the moment they were alone with each other, -though in the midst of the crowded streets. They went across the bridge -making momentary involuntary pauses to look at the traffic on the river, -forgetting that they ought not to have had any attention to spare for -such outside matters. Though Susie was entirely town-bred, they looked -what they were hence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span>forward to be—a country pair, a rural couple come -up from their vicarage to see the world. There ought not to have been so -much ease, so much sweetness in the morning to May the convict’s -daughter: and yet she could not help it, there it was. And to Mr. -Cattley, who had always been accustomed to a somewhat secondary place, -the sensation of being supreme was strangely delightful. A woman who can -give that unquestioning admiration, that boundless trust, is always -sweet. It is not every woman that can do it, however godlike may be the -man: and the curate did not believe that he was godlike. But yet it was -very delightful that she should think so. It was a surprise to him to -receive this tender homage; but it was very sweet.</p> - -<p>They had reached the quiet street in which John’s rooms were, when Susie -was suddenly roused out of this heavenly state by the sight of some one -coming hastily out of her brother’s door. They were still at a -sufficient distance to see that he came out half-running, as if pursued, -and that he looked round him with alarm as he came towards them, -stumbling a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> with uncertain steps. Something perhaps it was in -this somewhat wavering movement which roused old recollections in her -mind—and her father, but for that temporary lapse into personal -blessedness, had been very much in the foreground of her imagination.</p> - -<p>She let go Mr. Cattley’s arm with a shock of sudden awakening, with a -cry of ‘Papa!’ She recognised him in a moment. He was in reality very -little changed, far less changed than she was, the austerity of his -prison life having preserved the freshness of early years in his face.</p> - -<p>‘Papa,’ she said, and stopped and reddened with sudden emotion, ashamed -to look at him who she thought must stand abashed before her, and for -the first time fully apprehending this tragedy, which no one could -smooth away.</p> - -<p>‘Eh!’ he cried, and gave her a hurried look. ‘I am in a great hurry. I -can’t speak to you now:’ then he stopped reluctantly, for the first time -realising what she had said. No, it was not shame; he was not afraid of -meeting her eye: but a look of curiosity and interest came into his -face. ‘What’s that you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> are calling me? Do you know me? Who are you? Are -you——? is this Susie?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, papa, it is Susie. Don’t go away. We were coming to look for -you, to ask—don’t go away from us. You are not at all changed,’ she -said, putting out her hands to detain him, ‘you are just the same. Papa, -oh, where are you going? Don’t go away.’</p> - -<p>‘You think so? Not changed! I might be—for you are changed, Susie, and -so is the world; everything’s changed. Don’t stop me, I must go; your -brother, if that is your brother—and if you are Susie——’</p> - -<p>‘Have you seen John, papa?’</p> - -<p>‘John,’ he repeated, with a half smile; and, though he had been in such -haste, he stopped now at once with every appearance of leisure. ‘He may -be John, but he’s not Johnnie, my little boy. He’s like a policeman,’ he -went on, in a tone of whimsical complaint, rubbing his arm where John -had grasped him; ‘he clutches in the same way. My little chap would -never have behaved like that. And so you’re Susie? I see some likeness -now. You were your mother’s pet, and the boy was mine. Ah! well,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> it -comes to the same thing in the end. You’re both of you ashamed of me -now.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, papa,’ cried Susie, with tears, ‘don’t say so; don’t think so! -John——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know: he wants to get hold of me, to keep me in some family -dungeon where I can’t shame him. I know that’s what he wants. No, child, -I’m going away. Do I want to disgrace you? I’ll go, and you shall never -hear of me more.’</p> - -<p>‘Papa,’ cried soft-voiced Susie, ‘come back and let us talk all together -like one family. Come back to poor John’s lodgings. We are all one -family, after all. We are all friends. Oh, come back, come back, papa!’</p> - -<p>‘He has got ladies there—the girl he is going to marry. Never, never! -I’m not going to have anything to do with him. I’m glad to have seen -you, Susie. God bless you, you’ve got a sweet face. You’re like a sister -of mine that died young. If you ever see your mother—I suppose you see -your mother sometimes?—you can tell her—— Well, perhaps I gave her -reason to hate me and give up my name. You can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> tell her she’ll never be -troubled anymore with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, papa!’ Susie drew a long breath and held him firmly by the arm. -‘Here is John. You must speak to John.’</p> - -<p>John had come hurriedly up to the other side, having followed from his -house, and now put his hand also upon his father’s arm.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t let you out of my sight,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘We must -understand everything, we must settle everything now.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, listen to him, papa: it’s not his fault; let us consult together; -we are all one family. Surely, surely we are all friends,’ Susie cried.</p> - -<p>May stood between his children with a sullenness unusual to it coming -over his face. He shook off John’s hold pettishly.</p> - -<p>‘I told you he clutched like a policeman,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind you, -Susie, you’re natural. If I had you with me, I might perhaps—— But -it’s no use thinking of that. You can tell your mother that whatever -happens she shall never be troubled with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Father,’ said John, with a shudder at the word, ‘we none of us want to -neglect our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> duties. Now that you are here, you can’t disappear again. -We belong to each other whether we wish it or not. You have a claim upon -us, and we—we have a claim upon you. Come back. Susie, get him to come -back.’</p> - -<p>A look of panic came upon May’s face. He shook them off from either -hand.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t let us have a row in the street,’ he cried. ‘You’ll bring all the -policemen about. And when a man has once been in trouble they always -think it’s his fault. Let me go.’</p> - -<p>‘Not without telling us where to find you, at least,’ said John.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, papa, papa!’ said Susie. ‘Don’t go, don’t go.’</p> - -<p>‘We’ll have all the policemen in the place about,’ May said, looking -round him with alarm.</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley had stood by all the time saying nothing. He came forward -now, and drew John aside.</p> - -<p>‘Jack, will you leave it in my hands?’ he said. ‘I know everything, more -perhaps than you do. And you’re not in a condition to judge calmly. You -know you can trust me.’</p> - -<p>‘And who may this be now?’ said May, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> pettish and offended tone. He -turned to the new speaker with a rapid change of front: but changed -again as soon as he perceived what the new speaker was. He had known a -great many chaplains in his time, and had never found them unmanageable. -‘I see you’re a clergyman,’ he said, in his usual mild tones: ‘and you -have a good countenance,’ he added, approvingly. ‘There’s some little -questions to settle between me and—my family. I don’t mind talking of -our affairs with such a—with such a—respectable person. So long as no -attempt is made on my personal freedom.’ He paused a little, and then -laughed with his usual perception of the ludicrous. ‘I’m very choice -over that,’ he said, ‘it’s been too much tampered with already.’ He -looked from one to another as he spoke, with a faint expectation of some -smile or response to his pleasantry: some sense of the humour of it in -Susie’s deprecating anxious face or the stern misery of John. The want -of that reply chilled him for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he -stepped out briskly from between his irresponsive children.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Lead on—as Montressor would say—I’ll follow with my bosom bare—or at -least with my heart open—which comes to the same thing, I suppose,’ he -said.</p> - -<p>This transaction took place so rapidly that John, in his confused state, -and even Susie, scarcely understood what was taking place till they -found themselves alone, watching the two other figures going quickly and -quietly along the street. To Susie it seemed as if in a moment -everything had come right. Mr. Cattley carried off her anxieties with -him, to be solved in what was sure to be the best way. She came close to -John’s side and put her arm within his, supporting him with her -confidence and certainty that all would now go well, supporting him even -physically with the soft backing-up which he wanted so much. They stood -together silent, watching the other two disappear along the street. How -it was that John gave in so easily, and let the matter be taken out of -his hands, no one ever knew; the secret was that he was worn out with -misery and unrest. Body and soul had become incapable of further -exertion, even of further suffering. The only solu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span>tion possible to his -strained nerves and strength was this—that some one else should do it -for him. For he was incapable of anything more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE GREAT SCHEME.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">And</span> yet there was something for which the poor young fellow was capable -still.</p> - -<p>While this strange meeting had gone on, a telegraph boy—that familiar, -common-place little sprite of the streets—had made his way to John’s -door; and, unnoticed by the agitated group, had been directed by Mrs. -Short putting out her head and shaking it sadly all the time by way of -protest—to where John stood. This little bit of side action had been -going on for a minute or two without anyone observing it; and it was not -till the group had broken up and John and his sister were standing -together, incapable of speech and almost of thought, watching the others -as they walked away, that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> telegraph boy came up and thrust his -message into John’s hand. It seemed a vulgar interruption, breaking into -the tragic scene; and John stood with the envelope in his hand, with a -sense that he was as much beyond the reach of any communications which -could reach him in that way, as if he had come to himself in the land -beyond the grave. But Susie felt differently; the interruption was to -her a welcome break.</p> - -<p>‘Look at it,’ she said, holding his arm close with a woman’s keen -interest in a new event. ‘It may be something of importance.’</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing of any importance,’ he said, in the deadly languor of -exhaustion. ‘Nothing can make any difference to us now.’</p> - -<p>‘But open it,’ said Susie.</p> - -<p>He gave her a look of reproach. What did it matter? If the telegram had -been from the Queen, it could have made no difference. Nothing could -alter the fact that he was his father’s son.</p> - -<p>‘But open it,’ Susie said again.</p> - -<p>He tore it open in a languid way, hoping nothing, caring for nothing, in -the blank of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> despondency and helplessness. Even the words within did -not rouse him. He read and crumpled it up in his hand.</p> - -<p>‘What is it, John?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing very much. They want me—in the office,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘In the office! That makes me think—John, why are you here at this time -of day?’</p> - -<p>‘If you mean why am I not there—— I haven’t been there for three days. -I have left the office,’ said John, in the carelessness of his exhausted -state.</p> - -<p>She caught his arm again with an almost shriek of dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Left the office! when it is all you have to look to. Oh, John, John!’</p> - -<p>‘What did it matter? They were very unjust: they made a false -accusation: and then I discovered <i>him</i>. I found out why they suspected -me, why I have been suspected all my life—even by you and—my mother, -Susie.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, John. Oh, no, no, dear John. Never, never!’ cried Susie, -vehemently. ‘Mother has suffered a great deal: she can’t forget: she -ca<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span>n’t forgive even as we do. We do, John, don’t we? We do, we do!’</p> - -<p>‘Forgive whom? The people that had always doubted me for a reason I -didn’t even know?’</p> - -<p>His face grew stern. He could say nothing of the other, whom it was both -easier and harder to forgive. Susie did not dare to enter upon that -subject. She gave his arm a little pressure, and said, softly,</p> - -<p>‘Since they send for you, you will go, John? Oh, go! You must not throw -everything away, because——’</p> - -<p>‘Because—it does not matter to anybody, least of all to me. I’ll go -away to America, or somewhere, and take that poor wretch, that -light-hearted wretch——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John, he is your father.’</p> - -<p>‘I know: can you say anything worse? are you trying what is the hardest -thing you can say?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John!’ said poor Susie, and began to cry.</p> - -<p>Her confusion, and trouble, and anxiety, not unmixed with a little -exasperation, too, were not to be expressed in any other way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span></p> - -<p>He relented a little at the sight of her tears.</p> - -<p>‘I think there’s no heart left in me,’ he said. ‘I make everybody that -cares for me unhappy. You, out here in the street, and there, -inside—Elly.’</p> - -<p>‘Elly!’</p> - -<p>Susie’s astonishment was so great that she could not find another word -to say.</p> - -<p>‘<i>She</i> does not cry,’ said poor John. ‘She has come to stand by us. She -is braver than I am. She’s so innocent, Susie, she doesn’t know. If she -knew better, if she knew the world, she wouldn’t come to me, a poor, -shamed, and ruined man, a convict’s son.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John!’ There being no answer to make to this, Susie recurred to the -former subject. He had still the telegram crushed in his hand. ‘That is -not about ruin and shame,’ she said. ‘John, tell me, what does it say?’</p> - -<p>‘I scarcely know what it says,’ he answered, with an impatient sigh. And -then suddenly, in a moment, by some strange miracle of the nerves and -brain, he seemed to see the message glow out in big letters of flame -quivering through the air, obliterating the shabby walls and long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> lines -of the pavement, throwing a strange light upon everything—till they got -inside his very soul, and obliterated everything else that was there. -Words which were not divine, nor even very elevated that they should -have moved him so. ‘<i>Scheme very promising, your presence -indispensable.</i>’ What did that mean? He knew very well what it -meant—that all was not over, as he thought, that life and hope still -remained. What did he care about such empty, impotent things? But so it -was. All was not over, though he insisted within himself that it was so. -The story of May and his little boy might, after all, be but a -fairy-tale that had no sequence or meaning. And he was John Sandford, -and the ball was at his foot once more.</p> - -<p>John scarcely knew how he got to the office on that eventful morning; -but somehow, by force or sweet persuasion, or something that drew him in -spite of himself, he went, leaving the ladies still in his parlour, -where, in the sickness of his heart, he could not see them again. The -sight of Elly was more than he could bear. It was easier to face the -Barretts, and anything they could say to him, than to look at Elly in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> -her ignorance and certainty, in her all-confident love and courage. She -to stand by him! who would not be permitted to soil her gentle name and -stainless record by the most distant contact with his shame and -wretchedness. Elly! her very name gave him a sick pang of mingled -sweetness and misery. To think she should be ready to do all that for -him—and to think that in honour and justice he ought never to see her -again!</p> - -<p>He found the Barretts, father and son, awaiting him with apparent -anxiety. They both looked up eagerly when he opened the door, and Mr. -William came forward, holding out his hand.</p> - -<p>‘Sit down, Sandford. My father and I wish to have a little talk with -you. We are all sorry for the misunderstanding that occurred when you -were here last.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think there was any misunderstanding. Mr. Barrett told me that -I was doing what he always expected, when I behaved like a traitor and -liar.’</p> - -<p>‘It was all a mistake, Sandford. I give you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> my word it was all a -mistake. Father, you had better speak for yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘I withdraw what I said, if I said that,’ said the old gentleman. -‘Perhaps I have been prejudiced. My opinion is that children are what -their parents make them: but circumstances alter cases. And I hear from -William——’</p> - -<p>‘The fact is,’ said the junior partner, laying his hand upon the papers -on the table, ‘that this is a most remarkable scheme of yours, -Sandford.’</p> - -<p>In whatsoever depths a man may be, to have his work or his invention -praised will make his heart jump. Suddenly it seemed to John as if a -great cloud, which had enveloped the world, opened and rolled aside, and -out from behind it, in all the splendour of day, appeared for a moment -the smiling blue. He thought that cloud and darkness had been the shadow -of his father; but that it was not this alone was evident suddenly -now—if only for a moment. He did not say anything in reply, but drew a -long breath.</p> - -<p>‘Spender & Diggs,’ continued Mr. William Barrett, ‘like idiots as they -are, tell Prince that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> they can’t make head or tale of it: that it’s -mixed up with clever things and nonsense; and that they have sent it -back.’</p> - -<p>‘The man,’ said John, with a stammering in his voice which his late -masters thought was due to some sense of delinquency; ‘the man who -copied my papers, and who took them without my knowledge, went for them -yesterday and demanded them back.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, that explains—! Well, Sandford, most likely we were wrong -altogether. I find a great deal that is admirable in your scheme. We see -business in it,’ said Mr. William, rubbing his hands. ‘We see money in -it. We see our way to making a great thing of it; that’s the fact, -Sandford. We never meant you to take our remonstrance as bitterly as you -did, you know: never. Things looked bad. It looked like an ugly piece of -business—it looked like——’</p> - -<p>‘Put it in plain words,’ said John, roused to all his old indignation, -and using involuntarily the words his navvies might have used. ‘You -thought it as mean a dirty trick as ever was played?’</p> - -<p>Mr. William Barrett paused a little and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> he burst into a laugh -which carried off a good deal of annoyance and something like shame.</p> - -<p>‘We needn’t quarrel about words,’ he said, ‘but I never believed it in -my heart. I looked for some explanation from you that would clear it up -at once, for I knew you were not the man to do a dirty trick. But I -could get nothing out of you, not even when I went to your rooms that -time, and found you involved deeper and deeper.’</p> - -<p>‘When did you come to my rooms?’ said John, looking at him blankly.</p> - -<p>‘Sandford,’ said the younger Barrett, ‘look here, my good fellow, you’re -young and you must be careful. Whatever you have been doing, it must -have been worse than an ordinary spree.’</p> - -<p>John stared at him for a moment without comprehending: and then he -answered; with a kind of smile,</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it was much worse than an ordinary—spree.’</p> - -<p>‘If it were not that I never knew you to do anything of the kind -before—— Yes, I was there; you had two men with you, and I didn’t like -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> looks of them. Now, look here: I didn’t understand then, and I -don’t inquire now, what was the matter; you’ve always been a steady -fellow so far as we have known; you’ll have to be so more than ever, -mind you, if you go into this big thing. The thing’s so big that it will -make your fortune—with the help our experience can give you—and if -it’s accepted, as I have little doubt it will be. But you’ll have to be -careful. Bad company and bad hours, and that sort of thing, will never -do for a rising man.’</p> - -<p>John made no reply. Bad company! yes, it had been bad company. It was -hard to sit quietly under an imputation which went so entirely against -all the traditions of his life, but it was better perhaps that they -should think so than that they or anyone should know the truth.</p> - -<p>The elder Mr. Barrett shook his solemn head like a wise old sheep, with -his white hair and beard.</p> - -<p>‘Depend upon it,’ he said, ‘without good principles, no man ever did -anything. Clever notions are all very well, but without good -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span>principles——’</p> - -<p>‘It’s well to have the notions and the principle too,’ said the junior -partner, interrupting hastily. ‘Here are some jottings I have put on -paper, Sandford. You can run your eye over them. That’s what, in case -your plan should be accepted, we would propose. You had better think it -well over and consult your friends: and in the meantime make use of any -assistance you want in the office to put it all in right form. If you -will take my advice, you will lose no time.’</p> - -<p>John looked over the paper put into his hand with a dimness in his eye -and a throbbing in his head, as if all the machinery that would be -wanted in the work had suddenly been set going in his brain. It clanged, -and whirred, and rang as if all the great wheels were going and the -pistons falling, and every motive power in action; and then there -suddenly rolled out before him like a panorama the future life which he -had planned and hoped, the great works in which his mind should be the -directing force, and all the industries that depended thereupon. It was -not, perhaps, what the youthful dreamer would ordinarily think a -romantic picture. He seemed to see all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> great workshops, the men in -the foundries in the glare of their red furnaces, the brickworks, the -regiments of excavators on the soil, a whole busy world of men, with -plenty and prosperity around them. He saw all this in one lightning -flash. This was what had set his imagination soberly aflame when he was -a boy. This was the lighthouse that Elly had shaped among the boundless -possibilities of life in Mr. Cattley’s study. Elly! Ah! that drove away -his dream in a moment, and brought him back to himself, standing in a -great confusion of being in Mr. Barrett’s office, studying the -paper—the paper which was only half visible to him, which made fortune -and favour sure.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll take to-day,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can settle to anything -to-day.’</p> - -<p>They shook hands with him, even the old sheep, looking out with his -white locks with an immovable face still distrustful of John, yet -compelled to that complaisance; and he went out with <i>that</i> in his -pocket—that which proved his early dreams to be real, which was the -test and touchstone of his value in the eyes of those who had been his -masters, and were best able<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> to judge. He went out, forgetting -everything else that had happened, taking up for the moment his life -where he had dropped it a week before. A week ago he would have taken -that paper to the family at the rectory, and the humbleness of his -origin—his origin, which was so respectable, yet not on the level of -the Spencers—would have been forgotten. Again for one moment more the -elation of his success got into John’s brain. Again he trod on air. He -thought, his brain all dizzy with the sudden rapture, of showing it all -to Elly, making her understand. She would not understand, but she would -think she did, in her heart, if not in her brain, and would jump to the -delight of it, and all that would follow. They would say to each other -that this was the lighthouse, the first idea that had struck their -youthful fancy, Elly’s lighthouse, which had caught John’s imagination -in its earliest dawning, and flashed at last into this great thing.</p> - -<p>The young man in his misery had a revelation, a vision of overpowering -sweetness and delight. Without that spark of divine light from her, he -said to himself, it would never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> have been, this great work, which he -knew would bring comfort and well-being over a whole district, and make -his name famous, and bring many a blessing: <i>his</i> name; but they should -know, everybody should know that by himself he never would have thought -of it, that it was Elly who had been the first. How could he let the -world know that it was Elly who was the first—not, indeed, to think of -the Thames Valley and its drainage, or how to make an end of the floods, -she who could not, God bless her, manage her algebra even, or work out a -problem to save her life—but only to light up the thoughts that were -good for that sort of thing, to light the first divine beacon of which -all lighthouses were only the development? He was very young in spite of -all his maturity and experience; and for one blissful moment, nay hour, -this elation and rapture took possession of his soul, and made him -forget the horrible passage through which he had gone, and all the -bitter realities around him. He floated once more into a world of light -and brightness, and boundless hope and enthusiasm. All the more -heavenly, for the depth of despair in which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> had been dwelling, was -the glory of this, the confidence, the anticipation of everything that -was best both in work and in life, the happiness of carrying it all out, -the delight of talking it over with Elly, explaining it all to her day -by day. She would not understand, not a bit, he said to himself, with -tears of pleasure in his eyes; but it would come to the same thing: for -she would understand him and what he wanted, and it would be her work as -well as his—Elly’s lighthouse, of which the foundations were laid in -Mr. Cattley’s study long ago.</p> - -<p>When suddenly, in the midst of all these delightful thoughts, John felt -himself struck down as if by a great stone, as if it were some falling -meteor, compounded of infernal elements, though coming from the skies. -It came down, down with the straight and cruel velocity which is given -by natural laws, down to the very bottom of his heart. Suddenly there -seemed to appear before him old Barrett shaking his head, and his own -mother, with her suspicious, troubled eyes, watching him, looking for -evil: and the reason of it all. The convict’s son! with the whole world -watching to see when the leaven<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> would break out in him, his father’s -nature, the instincts of the criminal—and even his friends standing -apart in horror and pity, broken-hearted, yet holding his shame aloof. -What could they do but hold him aloof? And Elly, Elly, who wanted to -stand by him, who had come to give him her support, to be his champion, -his stainless white protector! He heard himself laugh in the street like -a madman, laugh aloud with misery, he who had been nearly weeping with -pleasure. God help him, for what could man do for him; or woman either, -or fool, or angel—for was not she all these together, she who could -dream of the possibility of standing up for him still, standing by him, -and he his father’s son?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>ELLY’S PLEDGE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Egerton</span> and Elly were aware, but vaguely, that something was -happening outside while they sat half frightened, bewildered, not -knowing what to think, in John’s little parlour, dismayed by the sudden -appearance and disappearance of the man who was his father, who had -looked at them with that deprecating, good-humoured face, unlike a -criminal, and who yet was—something that they shuddered to think of. -They sat there silent, listening, waiting for John to come back; but -they forgave him that he did not come back. Everything was so -disorganised, so out of gear, that all the ordinary laws seemed -suspended, and even Mrs. Egerton forgave, indeed scarcely thought of, -this breach of all the rules of courtesy. Poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> boy! whatever he had -done, she would have forgiven him. She was sorry for him, sorry to the -bottom of her heart. And fortunately they neither of them knew that -Susie had been there, and had fled, afraid to meet them, not knowing -what to say to them. Both pride and honour had kept them from looking -out, from spying upon John, or watching what he was doing. They had sat, -as it were, behind a veil, and only known vaguely and half by instinct -that another scene in this painful little drama was going on outside. -And then silence had come, the sound of the voices had died away, and -they had still sat looking at each other with everything stopped and -arrested round them, not knowing what to think. It was some time before -they made up their minds to go, leaving the address of the house in -which they were in the habit of staying when they came to town to see -the pictures or do a little shopping such as ladies from the country -love. But all these pleasant usages were forgotten in the excitement of -this crisis.</p> - -<p>‘Tell Mr. Sandford we shall expect him as soon as he can come to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I will, ma’am, I will,’ cried Mrs. Short, ‘for he have need of his -friends, that I’m sure of. He do have need of his true friends.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Egerton was too much subdued and anxious even to take advantage of -this opportunity to inquire into John’s habits and mode of life, which -for a lady accustomed to manage a parish was wonderful, and showed how -serious the emergency was. And then they got into their cab and drove -away.</p> - -<p>These two ladies had come to London in a flush of tender impulse and -kindness, even Mrs. Egerton, who was an impulsive woman, forgetting all -her objections—which, indeed, from the beginning her heart had fought -against. And the thought of John in what seemed an abyss of despair -which had roused Elly to a swift determination to suffer no more -interference, to go to him, stand by him, marry him even in spite of -himself, and whether he wished it or not, had also swept all prudential -sentiments out of the warm heart of her aunt. They had rushed like a -couple of doves flying to save some wounded eagle, like a couple of -generous, inconsequent women, determined that there was nothing in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> -heaven or earth that could not be overcome by their support and love. He -had been met by some sudden obstacle, perhaps, to the success he had -dreamt of—good heavens, what did that matter? And as for his father, -<i>his father</i>, what could he have to do with it? Even now, when they knew -all, though the elder woman had met the revelation with a shriek of -dismay, Elly remained stolidly, stupidly unconscious of any force in it. -It did not affect her intelligence at all: if it was anything, it was a -reason for standing more determinedly, more constantly, by Jack, who -wanted support—that was all. It was not even that she would not permit -herself to see the force of it: she did not, actually. It passed by her -intelligence, and did not touch her. The more reason to stand by Jack! -that was all that Elly saw.</p> - -<p>But as they drove along in the dingy cab, through the endless shabby -streets, in the silence which was rendered more complete by the din and -tumult of London round them, a better understanding came to both—even -Elly began to find a tremor seize her. Her mind began to work in spite -of herself. The moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> that crime comes near, within the circle where -honour has been always a foregone conclusion, and any infringement of -the law a thing impossible, is a moment unspeakable, indescribable. It -is bad enough when vice shows itself among all the pure traditions of an -honourable family: but crime—something that cannot be excused by the -force of temptation, that cannot be wept over as affecting the sinner -only, who is nobody’s enemy but his own—but a breach of honesty, a -crime against the law and against the rights of others! There are sins -which are a thousand times more deeply guilty than theft or even -forgery, but they are in a different category. Trial, conviction, the -contamination of a prison, the felon’s obliteration from personality and -right, make up a horror and shame of the actual, undeniable, -matter-of-fact kind, which the dullest feel, and which affect the -innocent with a sensation like a nightmare.</p> - -<p>In the silence of their long drive Mrs. Egerton repeated now and then to -herself, ‘A convict!’ with a shudder. Anything but that; if the father -thus suddenly discovered had been a beggar, if he had been a poor -broken-down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> drunkard, a reprobate! There are drunkards and reprobates, -alas! everywhere, whom the best of families have to put aside into some -corner, and veil with silence or with pitiful excuses, with abandonment -or sacrificing love. But a convict cannot be hid. A man may live the -purest life, he may win everything that energy and even genius can -secure, but at the end of all the meanest may rise up and say, ‘Behold -the convict’s son,’ and cover even a hero with shame. Imagination could -not go so far as that in picturing the evils that are possible. Poor -Jack! Poor boy! with his father a convict—a convict! The horror of it -was so great and terrible that nothing was possible, save to say over -and over these words of shame.</p> - -<p>And Elly felt it still more deeply in her way. It seemed to ache all -over her, this consciousness which she could never shake off, never -forget. She took it for her own without doubt or question, embraced it, -drew it close to her, with all the <i>abandon</i> of youth. It seemed to Elly -that nobody would ever forget it, that it would be blazoned on Jack, and -all who belonged to them, on their name, their dwelling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> and, above -all, on those great things that he was to do. And, of course, he could -not give up his father; he must live with them, be their daily -companion, this man who had spent years and years in a prison. She was -silent, too, with a chill upon all her thoughts. No idea of deserting -him ever came into Elly’s mind. She accepted the misery as for her too. -And all the accounts she had ever heard of the cruelty of the world in -visiting disgrace upon the innocent came into her mind. Could they live -it down? she asked herself, or must Jack, poor Jack, dear Jack, with -only her to console him, live under this shadow, this awful, undeserved -shadow, all his life?</p> - -<p>Things were better when they got to their rooms, where all was quiet, as -quiet as a London street can ever be; and where, as they sat down facing -each other with nothing to do, the irrepressible controversy broke -forth:</p> - -<p>‘Your father will never, never hear of it,’ Mrs. Egerton said. ‘Never! -Even I myself, Elly—— A convict—how could we let you connect yourself -with a convict? And your father and brother both clergymen! Percy would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> -die first. I am sure he would see you die first. And even your father: -your father—can be very decided when he takes a thing into his head.’</p> - -<p>‘You said so before, Aunt Mary. You said you never would consent; but -you talk now as if you would have consented; as if you had consented.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, that was very different!’ Mrs. Egerton said. And in her heart Elly -felt that it was different, oh, how different! So different, that even -Elly herself felt with a shudder that something was before her quite -other than love and happiness. There would still be love, oh, more than -ever! but bitter with pain and shame.</p> - -<p>It was the afternoon when John came to them. They perceived at once, -with their quick, feminine habit of reading the face and its expression, -that some change had occurred since the morning. Elly rushed to meet -him, when he entered, with both her eager hands held out, but John -turned from her, shaking his head with sorrowful self-control. He came -and sat down opposite Mrs. Egerton. And there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> followed a moment in -which no one spoke. Mrs. Egerton lifted up her hands, and clasped them -together with the natural eloquence of restrained emotion.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jack,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘oh, my poor boy!’</p> - -<p>Pity, tenderness, reluctance, the inexorable impossible were in her -looks. It could not be, it could not be; and yet it broke her heart to -say so; in such moments there is little need of words.</p> - -<p>‘I want to tell you,’ he said. ‘I want to show you——’ He took Mr. -Barrett’s paper from his pocket, and spread it out before them: the -figures on it were like hieroglyphics in the women’s eyes. ‘This is what -I hoped for,’ he said, ‘when I left Edgeley that day—— I don’t know -how long ago, it might be a century. My great scheme, that I had all my -heart in, is to be carried out. It will bring me a fortune: it is a -great work, a work any man might be proud to do. I have got my foot on -the ladder, sure. It is not mere hope any longer, but sure, as sure as -anything that is mortal can be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jack!’ cried Elly, rushing to his side once more.</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad, Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, with a trembling voice, ‘very -glad, very glad, for you—but, oh, my poor boy——’</p> - -<p>‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you glad, indeed? that’s very good of you. I’m -not glad, not a bit. It doesn’t matter. I’ll work at it all the same, -but I don’t care. It’s the same thing to me whether it goes on or -whether it stops. You need not shake your head, for I know—I know it -makes no difference. But I thought I must come and tell you. I am going -to make my fortune: but it does not matter to anyone in the wide world, -and I don’t care.’</p> - -<p>‘Jack,’ said Elly, standing by his side, ‘have you made up your mind -that you will pay no attention to what I think or what I say?’</p> - -<p>He looked at her in such a bewildering passion of misery and -hopelessness that all expression seemed to have gone out of his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can’t, I can’t—even if you would.’ Then he paused, -drawing a breath which was half choked by something hysterical in his -throat. ‘But I had to come and tell you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> It’s what we used to talk of -long ago. It’s—it’s the lighthouse, Elly!’ he cried, with a sudden sob -which all the manhood of twenty-one could not restrain, and buried his -face in his hands.</p> - -<p>She flung her arms round him, bent down over him, holding his bowed head -to her breast. She was half-sister, half-mother, protector, guardian, as -well as his love. Tender, domestic affection, unabashed, as well as the -strong passion of the woman, shone in the eyes with which she turned to -the weeping spectator.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think you or anyone will ever part me from Jack?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, children, do not break my heart! Your father will never, never -consent—and Percy—and everybody who knows. Jack, for pity’s sake, tell -her, tell her! She will listen, perhaps, to you.’</p> - -<p>It was a minute at least, a long, long time, before John raised himself, -detaching those dear arms.</p> - -<p>‘Elly,’ he said, ‘I am my father’s son. People have distrusted me all my -life, and I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> knew why. They may distrust me yet, and I will know -the reason, and God knows what it may make of me. No, I know that your -father will not consent.’</p> - -<p>‘And a girl’s own mind is nothing,’ she cried, indignant, ‘I know you -all think so, whatever you may say.’</p> - -<p>John turned to Mrs. Egerton with a piteous look.</p> - -<p>‘It is you that must tell her,’ he said, ‘how can I do it? I’m young, -too. I only know you mustn’t decide, Elly, at your age. You don’t know -the world; you don’t know what you’re doing. If everything had been -straightforward with me, you are still above me, gentlefolks, while I am -nobody. You said so——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jack, Jack!’ said Mrs. Egerton, as if this was a reproach.</p> - -<p>‘Everything is straightforward with you,’ said Elly. She had drawn away -from him with a little movement of pride. ‘But,’ she said, ‘it is true -enough. I don’t know the world, and neither do you. Perhaps we are too -young. If you say that, or if Aunt Mary says that, I will not make any -objection, Jack—how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> should I? I don’t want to force you to—to have me -before the time——’</p> - -<p>The extreme youth of both gave them a simplicity of words and good faith -which elder lovers could not have ventured on. He accepted what she said -in all seriousness and humility.</p> - -<p>‘But there’s more than that,’ he said. ‘Oh, Elly, I can’t deny it, I -can’t disguise it, there’s more than that. If it was only that we were -too young! But everything is against us. And how could I, loving you all -my life, owing everything to you as I do——’</p> - -<p>‘You owe me nothing, nothing, Jack! It is all the other way.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, don’t say that, for I know better. I was just thinking—it’s all -you, Elly. I should have gone into an office, or wherever they pleased -to put me. I should not have minded. It was all your lighthouse. And to -think,’ said Jack, as if that furnished him with a new argument, ‘that I -should bring you to shame! Never, Elly; I would rather die.’ He paused a -moment and shook his head. ‘It’s no good talking of dying, is it, at my -age? I’d rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span>—live alone as I’ve always done, and do my work the -best I could, and agree that there was nothing more for me in this -world.’</p> - -<p>‘Jack!’ cried Elly, with a kind of shriek of exasperation and tenderness -and contradiction; and then she turned from him, her eyes flaming bright -under the dew of tears, her cheeks like two deep roses, her mouth -quivering, smiling, touched with fine scorn. She wanted some one to vent -her loving wrath, her disdain of all mean arguments, her boundless, -fiery indignation upon. ‘Aunt Mary,’ she cried, ‘how dare you to say so, -or to think it? My father is a gentleman! He may not be much as a -parson—it’s not for me to say: but he’s as fine a gentleman as -Chaucer’s knight. Say all the bad things you please, you two, I know -what’s in papa! He will no more forbid me to marry John than he would -turn against the poor boy himself for what’s no fault of his. But I -won’t do it now,’ Elly added, magnanimously, breaking into a laugh, -which much resembled crying. ‘Not now. I’ll wait till I’m -one-and-twenty. And then I’ll do it with my father’s full consent, -whatever you may do or say, you two!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>With which defiance flung at them, Elly majestically marched out of the -room, leaving them to conclude the conference together. What she did -after, whether she did anything but retire to her room and cry, burying -her face in the coverlet of her bed where she had thrown herself, no one -can say; for nobody ever knew from Elly what torrents of tears came -after that thunderstorm, nor how she trembled, and wondered, and doubted -if papa were really so noble, so good, so fine a gentleman as she had -asserted him to be.</p> - -<p>‘They will never consent,’ said Mrs. Egerton, after the girl had gone, -‘Oh, Jack, I wish I could believe as she does, that my brother—— But I -will not deceive you, Jack. He will never, never consent. He is a proud -man, though she does not know it—there are no such proud people as -these simple people. I wish, I wish I could think as she does: but I -can’t, I can’t, Jack!’</p> - -<p>‘Do you really wish it, Mrs. Egerton,’ said John, taking her hand and -kissing it. ‘I could not have expected that. It is more than I had any -right to hope.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Did I say I wished it? I can’t tell. She and you draw the heart out of -my breast. I ought not to wish it. Oh, Jack, my poor Jack, this is a -dreadful thing to bear.’</p> - -<p>He let her hand go with a deep sigh. ‘Who can feel that as I do?’ he -said.</p> - -<p>‘You; oh, but it is different with you. The man (I am sure I beg your -pardon) is your father. It is your duty to put up with him: it is not -for you to bring up his sins against him. But we that have nothing to do -with him—Jack, oh, Jack, the cases are different! and you say yourself -that Elly ought not—that she knows nothing of the world.’</p> - -<p>It was ungenerous to appeal to what he had himself said. But he -consented with a melancholy movement of his head.</p> - -<p>‘The rector has always been very kind to me. Oh, yes, I know that’s a -different thing altogether. It is not like giving me—— Mrs. Egerton, I -think I had better go away, for what is the use of talking. He is my -father, it is true. It is my business to put up with it, to bear it—to -bear everything that follows from it—but it is hard. You can’t say but -what it is hard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jack, my poor boy! She took his hand in both of hers, and, that not -being enough, bent forward and kissed him in the anguish of her -sympathy. ‘But what can I say to you? I can’t deceive you. I know they -will never, never consent.’</p> - -<p>John went away, not knowing where he went, as if he were following his -own funeral. He felt like that, he said to himself, sadly—the funeral -of all his hopes. He had his work, but what would that be, what could it -matter if he made his fortune, without Elly? And then he went on -reflecting, as many a man has done before him, on the spite of fate. If -this had all happened before he went to Edgeley, how much less would the -misery have been! It would have been bad enough, but he could have -thrown it off, and perhaps in time have forgotten it: for then Elly was -but a light of his childhood faint and far-off, and had not become a -necessity of his life. Why was he permitted to go and see her again, to -discover all that she was to him, only to lose her for ever? For Elly -had been right in what she had said in her indignation, ‘A gir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span>l’s own -mind is nothing.’ Even John, though he had perfect trust in her, though -for a moment he had been carried away by the flash of her resolution and -certainty, did not take much comfort now from Elly’s pledge. She did not -understand (how should she?) what thing it was that so lightly, so -easily, she made up her mind to take upon herself. Poor John put that -aside in the deep despondency that overwhelmed him. And, when his mind -recurred to his momentary triumph of the morning, it but added a pang -the more. To think that this success had secured the only thing that had -been needed a little while ago; and, now he had got it, it was nothing. -He went slowly, slowly away, following (he said to himself again) his -own funeral, not able to hold up his head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>A SUSPENDED SOLUTION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> seemed to matter very little to John that Mr. Cattley met him in the -evening with what he thought good news. In the absence of anything -better, it was good news. May had been very amiable, as was the manner -of that hopeless but good-humoured and philosophical unfortunate. He -declared that nothing on earth would induce him to injure his children -by attaching himself to them: he had come back to John’s room only to -return those papers which he had taken with the intention of disposing -of them on his son’s account, meaning no harm. He had never meant any -harm. He had intended, perhaps, to secure to himself a share of the -profit, but never to harm the boy. ‘Though he’s sadly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> changed, if ever -he was my little chap,’ he said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley did not tell Jack, but he confided to Susie that he had -offered to take that smiling and gentle-mannered reprobate to live with -‘us’ in the new parish where nobody would have known. But May would not -listen to any such proposal. He was very wise and foreseeing, and full -of consideration.</p> - -<p>‘There is no saying who might turn up,’ he said; ‘at the last, -everything gets known; and perhaps a parson’s house would be too much -for me,’ he had added, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I don’t know that -I’m good enough for that. I might fall into temptation, don’t you know! -And I couldn’t live with a blunderbuss always at my head, which would be -the case if I were with that son of mine—if he is my son. And Susie -would be worse, with her eyes. I remember her eyes long ago—they were -harder to meet than all her mother’s talk. They’re all very good, Mr. -Cattley. A man might be very happy among them; but not my kind. I’m not -worthy of such company. No, I’ve got a plan of my own.’</p> - -<p>This plan, when it was stated, was to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> effect that May had made up -his mind to emigrate. He thought he would go to the far West of America, -or to California.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to go to a place where there’s no fun,’ he avowed, -candidly. ‘I want to see a little life. If I stay here, I’ll get into -mischief.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Cattley (against his own wishes) had done his best to persuade him -to depart from this determination, but in vain; and finally he had been -authorised to treat with the family for the passage-money of the two -travellers, for Mr. Cattley had found the faithful Joe in attendance, -and had not been able to persuade May that this was not a fit companion -for him.</p> - -<p>‘He has been all the company I’ve had. Perhaps he’s not fit for -respectable society,’ said May, looking at the slouching ruffian with -eyes that were almost affectionate, ‘but I’m not respectable myself, and -why should I pretend to be better than he is? I’m not better, I’m worse, -if the truth was known; for of course I know a great deal better, and -ought to have avoided what was wrong, if anything is really wrong or -right in this world. It depends so much on your point of view.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘But why should you not be respectable?’ the curate had said. ‘There is -a home waiting for you, and better company than Joe.’</p> - -<p>The unteachable, the never-to-be-convinced, shook his head. ‘Joe will -suit me best,’ he said. And thus the bargain was made. He was to have a -moderate allowance, his passage-money, and his outfit. He was shipped -off with his friend, decently clothed, well fitted out as he desired, -and disappeared into the West. When his children, half-glad, -half-miserable, went to see him off, he bade them be cheerful and not -fret. ‘For there is no telling when the fancy may take me, and I may -turn up again,’ he said. The hearts of Susie and John sank within them -at this last blessing which he flung at them over the side of the ship, -which was already beginning to churn the water on her passage -outward-bound. They did not see the twinkle in his eye, nor know that he -meant it for a joke in the humorous simplicity of his heart.</p> - -<p>Susie married her curate shortly after, very quietly, without any fuss, -in London, an event<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> which caused much excitement in Edgeley, but none -where it took place. The Rev. Percy Spencer never mentioned it at all, -or allowed that he knew of it. But he spoke of ‘that fool Cattley,’ and -was so violent about the late curate’s mismanagement of the parish that -even the mild rector, who never made any appearance save in extremity, -took up the cudgels on behalf of the absent.</p> - -<p>‘It will be well for you if you do half as much for the parish in your -day as Cattley did in his,’ the rector said; and his son aghast at this -unexpected defence ventured to say no more. Mrs. Egerton treated the -matter in the contrary way. She made, perhaps, too great a joke of it, -talking to everybody on the subject. ‘Such a good thing for him,’ she -said, ‘going into a new place: and a good little nonentity of a wife who -will adore him, which is what our good Mr. Cattley was little used to.’ -But she sent the pair a wedding present, and was what Susie called very -kind. This marriage was no help to Elly, however, in the arduous piece -of work which she found she had before her when she got home. It made -matters a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> little worse. It turned Percy into an open and violent foe, -and it shook a little the wavering sympathy which Mrs. Egerton always -accorded her. And as for the rector, whom Elly had declared her faith -in, he did not respond as she had hoped. He was a true gentleman, he was -as good as Chaucer’s ‘very parfit gentle knight’—he was all his -daughter had claimed for him to be. But he, too, shuddered at the name -of the convict. Like all the older people, he remembered May’s story, -and all about him: and to permit his daughter, the quintessence of the -family excellence and pride, the flower of all the kindred, to connect -herself with such a race was more than Mr. Spencer’s generosity, or his -kindness, or even Elly’s influence could bring him to. He retired into -that stronghold of silence which is so redoubtable. He would not argue -nor give his reasons; he would not enter into the abstract question. He -acknowledged, or at least he did not contest, the merits of John. But, -when all was said that Elly’s fervid eloquence could say, the rector -remained unresponsive and unshaken.</p> - -<p>‘One might as well try to get an answer out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> of a stone wall,’ Elly -cried, in hot exasperation to her aunt.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dear, didn’t I tell you so? I told poor Jack so and he believed -me, but you would not believe me. He will never, never consent.’</p> - -<p>‘Then he shall never, never be asked any more!’ cried Elly, in her -indignation.</p> - -<p>But this was a thing which it was not practicable to carry out. He was -asked again and again, and continued to be asked until the time when -Elly should come of age, and then she was determined to take her own -way.</p> - -<p>‘I am disappointed in papa,’ she wrote to John, ‘but it is not out of -his heart he does it. He has not a word to say for himself. When I have -showed him the question in a just light, and proved that all their -objections are prejudice and nonsense, he just goes back to where he was -at first and shakes his head. But never mind. In two years’ (in a year -and a half—in a year—according as time went on, for this formula was -repeated on several occasions) ‘I shall be of age. You cannot say that I -don’t know the world or that I am too young <i>then</i>;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> and they all know -what I am going to do.’</p> - -<p>John could not refuse to take comfort from this repeated and unwavering -pledge. He had plunged into the preliminaries of his work without a -moment’s delay, and very soon, at an age when in England most young men -are only beginning to wonder what they shall do, he found himself at the -head of one of the greatest undertakings in the country, the centre of -endless activity. Such advancement perhaps, everything favouring, comes -sooner in his profession than in any other. But nobody, except those who -had seen him grow up, suspected how young Mr. Sandford really was, and -even those who did know it could scarcely believe in the accuracy of -their own memory. He had always been older than his years, and the great -shock he had received in the discovery of his father threw him so far -apart from all the thoughts and occupations of youth, that it seems to -John himself like half-a-century, that age of doubt and of misery, when -everything was at its lowest ebb, before the upspringing of new hope. -That grave youth matured under the fire of suffering into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> something -like a precocious middle-age, or at least the steadiest, sternest -manhood. He grew to be both respected and feared before he was -five-and-twenty. And, what was curious, the resemblance to his father, -which had been chiefly, perhaps, in the imagination of the elders, died -completely away. He became like Mrs. Sandford in these days of strong -activity and doubtful hope: not severe to his men, the multitude of -work-people of all classes who now laboured under him, a whole little -world of clerks, engineers, artisans, and labourers in every grade. He -was not severe ever: it was said indeed that he took circumstances into -consideration and tempered justice with mercy when any fault was pointed -out at the office or among the men, far more than most masters do, and -was slow to lose patience with any young culprit; but he looked severe, -which is the same thing—nay, is better as a deterrent. The people under -him were afraid of the stern look of his youthful unimpeachable virtue: -whereas, if he had been as severe in fact as in looks, a natural -antagonism, the protest of nature against harshness, would have speedily -evolved itself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span></p> - -<p>There are some things, however, which John has not been able to do, -notwithstanding his great success. He has never been able to move his -mother from the position in which she has so firmly placed herself. Mrs. -Sandford spoke no more of her husband than was inevitable; she never -recurred to the subject with John, never mentioned it to Susie except on -that one morning when Mr. Cattley was first introduced to her: but she -took upon herself all the arrangements that were made by Mr. Cattley for -May’s comfort, not permitting either son or daughter to interfere. Susie -was proud of this fact, while John with a grudge understood it at -least—that the proud woman could speak more freely to a stranger than -to her children, of the man who had been the ruin of her own life. She -would not see her husband, however, and never spoke of him, nor gave the -least indication of any knowledge on the subject. If she was aware of -the time of his departure, she made no sign of knowing it. There was no -relenting in her, no affection, only a horror beyond words. And she -would not allow John, when he began to grow rich, to remove her from the -laborious post<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> which it seemed no longer right that the mother of a -rising man, with plenty of money at his disposal, should continue to -hold. She smiled at the suggestion, and dismissed it with a wave of her -hand. To return to the little house at Edgeley among all the village -people, which was what John in youthful ignorance, notwithstanding his -precocious middle-age, would have liked her to do, was indeed -impossible. What would she have done there? unless, indeed, the cholera -had broken out, or some tremendous epidemic, when she could have -organised hospitals. John, however, here let us allow, with a great want -of perception, was annoyed that she should not have accepted this -proposal of his, and retired and given herself repose after her -hard-working life. But Mrs. Sandford was not one of the people who long -for rest. ‘The wages of going on’ was what pleased her most, and work, -and her own way. John was not pleased; it would have soothed him to -think that his mother was resting and doing nothing in that little -house, which he kept up always with an obstinate determination that it -should be, if not a grateful retirement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> for anyone, at least the shrine -of departed innocence and peace.</p> - -<p>We will not conceal from the reader that Elly is now twenty-one and -more, but that the marriage has not yet taken place. There has been -sickness and trouble at Edgeley, and the only daughter of the house has -not been able to withdraw from the post of duty: but since she became of -age she and her betrothed have corresponded fully. She knows everything -that goes on at the works, and all the new steps John is taking, and -received telegrams three or four times a day when that dreadful -catastrophe occurred which everyone has read of, when the machinery -broke down and the water poured back into the old channels, and for a -moment everything seemed in jeopardy. John dragged her into that as if -she had been his head clerk: he demanded her sympathy at every moment, -clamouring in her ears with his telegrams, in a way which excited all -the village. Indeed, there has been no political convulsion, no -contested election, no crime or accident for fifty years, which has -thrilled through Edgeley like that supposed collapse of the works in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> Thames Valley. When all was right, the whole community began to -breathe again. Dick, who was at home on furlough, trudged backward and -forward between the rectory and the post-office for several days, too -impatient to wait for the telegraph boy: and when it was all over he was -the man who electrified the rectory and all the community by saying, -‘This will never do.’ Dick was a man of few words, like his father; an -easy-going man who let other people manage most of his affairs for him; -but when much enforced he would say a word of weight all the more -startling from its rarity. He said these words one evening after dinner -in the midst of the family, suddenly when nobody expected it. He brought -down his hand upon the table, not roughly, but with sufficient sound to -call attention, and he said,</p> - -<p>‘This will never do. This business about Elly and Jack. He is a better -man than any of us. What does it matter who was his father? He’s his own -father, and all his relations. And that Mrs. Cattley’s a sweet little -woman. Don’t let’s have any more nonsense about it,’ said Dick.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span></p> - -<p>The rector gasped, and Mrs. Egerton fell a-crying, and Percy rose and -left the table. But Elly held out her hand to her big brother, and the -thing was as good as settled from that day.</p> - -<p>Let it be a comfort to all virtuous young persons in a similar position -that, as long as they hold out and are firm and constant, some one will -always arise at the end and face all obstructions with the verdict of -good sense and honest sympathy, saying in face of all unnecessary -objections, whether of birth or of money: ‘This will never do.’</p> - -<p>But with all his success, and with the happiness which is about to come, -one great cloud remains on John Sandford’s life, a fear which sometimes -takes his breath away and makes his heart sick, the fear that some day -when he suspects nothing, some sweet day—it might be his marriage -morning, it might be any happy anniversary—there will suddenly appear -round a corner a stumbling, shambling figure, never without a certain -attractiveness even in its degradation, a sort of charm of careless -innocence in the midst of guilt. Sometimes when he goes through the -works with perhaps a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> elation in the greatness of his undertaking -and the consciousness of the crowd which looks up to him as master, -surrounding him with that veiled obsequiousness which makes the head of -great industrial enterprises like a little king—the sight of some -shadow in the distance will take all the strength and courage out of -him.</p> - -<p>‘There is no telling when the fancy may take me.’ These words come back -to his ears with a meaning far more than was ever intended. But as a -matter of fact there is cause enough to fear. For May never meant -anything steadily or for long all his life. And when the fun to which he -looked forward is exhausted—which is a thing that soon happens on the -shady side of life—who can tell that the fancy may not take him to -bring the remnants of his worn-out existence home? Poor wretch, for whom -love and honour do not exist, but only fear and pity! the good man, the -prosperous and happy, who has deserved his prosperity, as well as the -other deserved his misery, is still the Son of His Father, and still -bound for ever in this world at least, wretchedness to well-being, -honour to shame.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span></p> - -<p>There is, however, one way in which this piece of personal history may -be safely made to end like a fairy-tale. Susie and her curate went home -to their new parish like a pair of doves to their nest. And these two -lived happy ever after, if ever any pair did so in this troubled yet not -always miserable world.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /> -LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Son of His Father; vol. 3/3, by -Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SON OF HIS FATHER; VOL. 3/3 *** - -***** This file should be named 60018-h.htm or 60018-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/1/60018/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - -</pre> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/60018-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/60018-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 862a3f6..0000000 --- a/old/60018-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null |
