RESEARCH.
John reflected as he walked back to his lodging on the small matters on
which great effects sometimes hang. This wretched fellow--hoping to get
something out of a poor woman whose husband was a felon, but who was
probably living in decent obscurity somewhere, keeping this dreadful
fact from the knowledge of those about her--had pronounced the name
which the boy had not heard for ten years, and thus, by an accident
which had nothing whatever to do with John, had thrown a light upon the
boy’s life. At this moment it was not a very comfortable light. The
gleam it had thrown had not brought peace, but the reverse. It had awoke
difficulties, troubles which no doubt were there and must have come
into evidence some time, though not necessarily now. John did not feel
that he had any reason to be grateful to the returned convict who had
all unawares, by mere chance, thrown that passing gleam upon his way.
But it was very strange to him to think how such things come
about--perhaps by mere accident, if there was such a thing as mere
accident in the world (John had touched the edge of philosophy, and
liked to think that he had thought on such subjects), perhaps in the
elaborate arrangements of a purpose which regulates the world in matters
both small and great. It gave him a sense of pleasure that such high
mysteries should come into his mind in connection with his own little
affairs, and yet it was no doubt just as wonderful, nay, more so, that a
sparrow can not fall without Divine Providence noting that infinitesimal
event, than if the schemes of heaven concerned only nations and
principalities and powers. He said to himself, following out that line
of thought (and liking himself for the impulse to do so), that if one
thing, then another; and that if God’s purposes regulated one act of
human affairs, they must regulate all, for nothing could be small or
great with Him. And whatever happened, though the present effect of the
revelation had been perhaps more painful than pleasant it was always
best to know. He said to himself that it is always best to know.
Supposing there is anything unpleasant in the antecedents of your
family, supposing they are less dignified, less well-off than you may
now suppose, still to know is a great matter. He was determined to leave
no stone unturned to find out why it was that he was not to be allowed
to come to Liverpool, and what harm it was supposed that he should get
there, and how his name, his father’s name, was connected with it, and
why he was forbidden to bear that name. These were momentous questions,
but they were not of that kind which he could get solved by any of the
ordinary means of procuring information.
On the last morning of his stay in Liverpool, John, being alone for an
hour or two, set out with a distinct determination on his mind to do
something, to leave not a stone unturned. He had already, when going
about with the curate, fixed his mind upon this. Indeed it was never
out of his mind. What had he come here for but with the determination to
find out something, to find out everything if it were possible? He had
gone about always on the look out, with his eyes open; but there had
been nothing either said or done within his ken which threw any light
upon his subject. On the last morning he was left alone, Mr. Cattley
having business to execute with his brother, and John felt that now was
his opportunity. He went out about ten o’clock with all the advantage of
being by himself and unhindered by anyone else’s business. By this time
he had become a little accustomed to the place and knew his way about.
He walked along straight in front of him, looking at all the shop
windows and the names over the doors. He did not quite see what help was
to be got out of that--but still he went on, observing everything,
hoping that perhaps some street corner might awaken his own dormant
recollection, or something that would give him a better guidance catch
his eye. He meant to leave no stone unturned.
Was there ever a wilder undertaking than to try to find information
about an unknown family by walking about the streets of a great city?
When he had walked for an hour or two, and began to feel tired, the
futility of this mode of research suddenly struck him. It did not seem
likely that he could do it in this way, when he came to think of it. But
how was he to do it? In what way was he to turn the metaphorical stone
under which knowledge might be hid?
He found himself in front of the Exchange when he woke up to this view
of the question. He went in timidly by the archway through which so many
men were streaming, and found himself suddenly in the midst of a sea of
men, all intent upon affairs which seemed life and death to them, all
too much absorbed in their own business to give any attention to the
boyish stranger. Sometimes there would arise a clamour of voices
speaking together, then this momentary storm would be over, and a lower
hum of many voices, a sound of feet, the murmur of a crowd would be all
that met his ear. And now and then this human tide would be moved like
the sea by a wave setting in one direction, and then would break off
into eddies and sweeps of current here and there. John was very much
interested by this sight. He had heard of such assemblies so often--the
characteristic heads, the strange sombre important aspect of this crowd
of men, the faces full of meaning and earnestness, affected him with
mingled awe and interest. They had the affairs of half the world in
their hands; many of them had a look of wealth, money written all over
their substantial persons; and then there were the shabby ones, more
exciting still to look at, with a hungry eagerness in their faces. The
boy forgot himself altogether and stood for a long time watching them,
pushed aside, now to one corner, now to another by the stream. Then it
suddenly occurred to him that he was neglecting his quest. He wondered
whether if he had the courage to call out in the midst of them all and
ask whether they knew anything of his father he might perhaps acquire
some information. But then shrank away into a corner ashamed of himself,
wondering what all those occupied men would think of him if he disturbed
their business consultations and arrangements with such a question. If
John had done so, no doubt the merchants would have been delighted. It
would have been a delightful story to carry home: ‘To-day on ‘Change the
funniest thing happened. A young fellow of seventeen or so, evidently
fresh from the country, got up suddenly and asked if anyone was known
there by the name of May!’ That is what the merchants and stockbrokers
would have told their families with great satisfaction. But the idea
filled John with shame and sudden discomfiture. He saw for the first
time how ridiculous were his hopes, and how impossible it was that he
should discover anything in this way.
It was half from shame, to recover from the self-ridicule of this
unaccomplished idea, that he plunged into a great public reading-room,
where he sat down to recover himself. True, he had not done anything to
be ashamed of, but the intention was so vivid that he felt as if he had
done it, and threw himself into a seat in a tremor of excitement, his
heart beating exactly as if he had carried that wild fancy into action.
By-and-by, when he recovered himself, he turned over a newspaper or two
mechanically, not knowing what he was doing, and feeling a confused
calm in this atmosphere--the quiet which was in the heart of the tumult,
a noiseless room within and the roar of the traffic and the multitude
without. While he thus sat in a kind of half-dazed condition his eye
fell upon a large thick volume, which was the directory of the town. It
seemed to him that an expedient more possible, more practicable, was
here afforded to him. He got up hurriedly, and turned it over, finding
without difficulty the name of a number of Mays. It was a May who was
the Mayor even. If he had asked the merchants in the Exchange, there was
no doubt this was what they would have thought he meant.
Then John went out again, and went straight to the Town Hall, which had
been pointed out to him, and which was close to the Exchange. He went,
not knowing very well what he was doing; and though he was shy by
nature, not venturesome, pushed his way through the town officers and
officials, and asked to see the Mayor. To see the Mayor! Had he gone to
Windsor Castle and asked to see the Queen, it would have been only a
little less reasonable. What did he want with the Mayor? It was only
when this question was asked him by a person of commanding presence and
still more commanding costume, of the beadle race, that he came to
himself. What did he want with the Mayor? To ask him if he could give
any information as to some one of his name who ten years ago or
thereabouts had lived in Liverpool (John supposed) and fallen into
misfortune? Poor John made a very faltering explanation to the beadle,
and shrank away, not without raising suspicions in that functionary, who
watched him out of sight with a look which was not complimentary. And it
was only then that the boy perceived the foolishness altogether of that
fervent resolution of his to leave no stone unturned. What stone was
there which he could hope to turn? What could he do? To appeal to the
mayor because his name was May! He might just as well, he said to
himself, have appealed to the ex-convict who had known some one of the
name of May in prison. The one would really have been as sensible as the
other, which was to say that both were folly itself. And, short of this
appealing to some one, what was he to do?
He did, as may be supposed, nothing. When he went to meet the curate at
the foundry in time for their train, he saw again the fellow who had
known May the prisoner, and had a shame-faced laugh at himself as he
thought of May the mayor. What if he were to interrogate this man, who
was already his acquaintance, who touched his cap and brightened at
sight of him, expectant of another shilling? The one, he said to
himself, would be just as sensible as the other, and more easily carried
out. When Mr. Cattley saw the recognition that passed between this
labourer and his young companion he looked at John with surprise.
‘Do you know that man?’ he asked, upon which John entered into the story
of his appearance at Edgeley, saying,
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘I think I remember something of the kind,’ said the curate, ‘but I
wonder you recollect the looks of the fellow. He is not a very
attractive-looking acquaintance.’
‘He brought a name to my mind,’ said John, ‘that I had a recollection
of--when I was quite a child. I have been trying to find out something
about it, but I can’t.’
‘What have you been trying to find out about?’
‘Well, that’s the funny part,’ said John, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘I
don’t exactly know. I want to know something, I can’t tell what, about a
gentleman of that name who I think lived here, or near here, ten or
twelve years ago.’
‘That’s vague,’ said the curate.
‘Yes, it’s very vague. I suppose it was silly to think I could find out
anything. The mayor’s name,’ said John, with a touch of pride in it, ‘is
May.’
‘Ah, the mayor. You didn’t think it was he, I suppose? I remember some
story of a May who embezzled or forged or something; no doubt the one
whom your friend there’ (Mr. Cattley jerked his thumb over his shoulder
to indicate the man at the foundry) ‘knew. Now, John, look sharp. We
haven’t got a minute to lose. Our train is at four.’
‘My things are all ready,’ said John: and they got their train, and
there was an end of the three days at Liverpool, in which he had hoped
to find out so much.
It was not so easy to explain his little journey to his grandfather as
he had hoped. He tried to give vague answers to the old man’s questions,
but in the end had to confess where he had been and why he had been so
desirous of going there.
‘To find out what?’ Mr. Sandford cried, with a flash of displeasure
quite unusual. ‘What did you want to find out?’
‘About my father, grandfather,’ said John. ‘I have never been satisfied
with what I have been told, and now less than ever.’
‘Why now? What has happened to make you dissatisfied? What does it all
mean?’
‘Since my--since your--since--Emily was here.’
‘How dare you call her Emily, sir? What do you mean by it? Do you intend
to drive me distracted in my lonely state? Am I to be brought to the
grave with your questions and your doubts? Ah, you never would have
taken that upon you,’ said the old man, ‘while _she_ was here. You think
you have got me at your mercy. You think you can take every advantage
of me now that I am alone.’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Grandfather, it is you who are hard upon me. She was
going to tell me. She would have told me if she had lived. The last
thing she said was, “Emily, tell the boy.”’
Old Mr. Sandford relapsed into his broken sobbing. It was quite genuine,
and yet both now and on other occasions it had served his purpose.
‘What is between two women,’ he said, ‘nobody can know, nobody but their
Maker. And neither you nor me can tell what that was. But she never told
you, bless her soul, that you were to insult your mother: oh no! nor me
that have always been your support and provided for you all your life.
You think perhaps you would have got on just as well without me, by
yourself, left upon the world?’
And then he fell into such agitation that John was full of regret and
self-reproach. He tried the best he could to make his grandfather forget
all that had been said, and to forget it himself, and to return to their
old life. But it was very hard to do. Indeed, this period in John’s
life was altogether very hard; his lessons were given over and he had
nothing to do: and after all the troubles and emotions of the past month
or two he had not strength of mind to begin some study by himself, as
Mr. Cattley advised and Elly urged him to do.
‘You should carry on your mathematics. Mathematics are always good for
an engineer: or even draw,’ said Elly, as if that branch of industry was
very frivolous in comparison, ‘that’s good for an engineer too. I am
sure Mr. Cattley would help you if you were to ask him. But, for
goodness sake, Jack, do something; don’t fall into the same ways as all
the other boys, wandering about with your hands in your pockets. It is
better to do anything,’ said Elly, ‘than to do nothing at all.’
John assented dutifully, but he neither resumed his drawing nor his
mathematics. He began even to avoid Elly, lest she should scold him; and
did wander about disconsolate with his hands in his pockets, with no
heart to do anything. This pause in his life was very hard upon him. It
had been settled that his mother, or Emily, whichever she was, should
arrange matters her own way at some engineer’s office in London, where
she had hopes of getting him taken in; but in the meantime she made no
sign, and it did not seem possible to do anything without her. Mr.
Sandford himself would take no trouble; sometimes he would lament
querulously that the boy whom he had brought up wanted to leave him and
had no feeling for him: sometimes he would say that his mother must
settle all that, that Emily was the proper person to arrange for her
son. But in any case nothing was done, and John relapsed into idleness
and wretchedness, and did nothing, devouring his own heart.
Whether this was a calculation of a cold-blooded kind on the part of the
woman who now seemed to have the lives of these two, the old man and the
boy, in her hands, as to what would happen--or whether it was the mere
course of events unquickened by any mortal calculation--it proved at all
events that Emily’s prognostics were right. Mr. Sandford never recovered
the death of his lifelong companion. He went out a little fitfully as
the spring came on, and took little walks chiefly ending in a visit to
her grave to see, after the snowdrops were over, if the primroses and
then if the violets were coming out there. He had covered the little
mound at first with all those spring flowers which she had loved,
perhaps with a dim prevision that the sod would be displaced before the
time for the later blossoms came. And all the long evenings he would sit
with a book laid out open upon her little table, but not reading, gazing
in the fire and twirling his thumbs. John sat at the table in his old
place near the lamps with his books, and sometimes tried to talk. But
his grandfather was not disposed to talk, and the hours would thus pass
by on leaden wings, so slow, so endless, so silent, not a sound in the
little parlour but the falling of the ashes from the fire, and the
ticking of the clock, and the rustle now and then of a page turned. But
John had no new books to tempt him, and at this turn of his life was but
a languid reader, and yielded in spite of himself to the fascination of
the strange dreary silence, and the contemplation of the old man
twirling his thumbs by the fire.
The summer had scarcely begun when Mr. Sandford’s daughter was again
summoned from London. When she arrived she found the sick-room in charge
of John, who had learned all that had to be done for the patient as well
as such an unlikely nurse could learn. The old man would not suffer him
out of his sight. He would not let him go even when Emily with her
superior knowledge came and took the seat at his bedside, and began,
almost before she came in, to alter the arrangements which the boy-nurse
had made.
‘He shouldn’t have this and that,’ she said, ‘they are bad for him in
his present state.’
‘My grandfather likes it so,’ said John.
‘We mustn’t ask what he likes, but what is best for him, ‘said the
new-comer. She was not unkind, but she was professional, seeing
everything from a point of view very different from theirs, with a
knowledge of what was right in the abstract and none of that tremulous
desire to please which moves a domestic ministrant. And, as if he had
waited for that sanction to his dying, the old man sank rapidly from the
time of her arrival. Whenever he could talk at all, his talk was about
‘the boy’ over whose head these two earned on their discussions, taking
no more notice of his presence than if he had been a chair or a table.
‘He’s been used to your mother, Emily. Your mother was very indulgent.
Perhaps he has been spoilt a little.’
‘A great deal, I fear, father.’
‘It was your mother did it. I like whatever she did best. It was all
done in love. Love is what he has been used to.’ This was on the last
night of his life. He was lying holding John’s hand, who was at one side
of the bed, while Emily was at the other. ‘Oh, be kind to him, my dear.
He’s a good boy. Don’t let there be any misunderstanding. When I am gone
he will have no one but you.’
‘I will try to do my duty to him, father. I don’t think you need have
any fear.’
‘Your duty, Emily, yes; but I hope it will be a little more than that.
Your own flesh and blood wants a little more. Trust him as much as you
can, my dear. He’s worthy of it. You would never repent it. Remember
that he has no one in the world but you.’
At midnight, the two to whom these words had been spoken stood again
together over the bed in silence more significant than words. ‘He had no
one in the world but you.’ The room was cold with the awe and chill of
death, and John stood stupified, as if his heart was dead. No one in the
world but her. Was this all he had to look to now?