JOHN’S RESOLUTION.
John’s feelings as he returned to town were very different indeed from
those with which he had left London. Everything then was enveloped in a
vague pleasure of expectation, a delightful doubt which was not fear. He
did not know what he was to meet, how he was to be received, what
changes had passed upon his old home and surroundings. All that was
unascertained, in every way doubtful, making his heart beat with
uncertainty, with expectation, and a pleasant mist of possibilities. But
since then all had become clear--so clear! dazzling even in the
distinctness of the light: and he himself had been suddenly lifted from
youthful obscurity, and compelled, as he felt, to distinguish himself,
to bring out all his powers without delay, to prove what he was. He was
not afraid of this compulsion: it exhilarated him rather with the
delightful consciousness that he was equal to the undertaking, able for
all that was demanded from him; proud and glad to be forced to the front
where he knew he could hold his place. But still it was a tremendous
change--one that subdued him with its greatness even while it
exhilarated and inspired him. Life had altered altogether. It had become
a thing laid down on grand and noble lines, much greater and firmer than
anything he had thought of, yet perhaps, by reason of being no longer
vague, not such an altogether splendid and dazzling possibility. He saw
before him what he was going to do. He was not going to conquer
kingdoms, to deliver princesses, to subdue the nations like an old
knight of romance, which is what in the mists of the morning every
ambitious youth still feels possible, though the nineteenth century
makes it expedient for them to laugh at all such fancies. John too had
seen visions in which he enacted the part of St. George and encountered
a modern dragon, with Elly looking on; and the dream had been sweet.
But he saw things differently now. He was going to slay no dragon.
There was not indeed any monster to slay. What he had to do was to
mature as rapidly as possible his plans, the great scheme which had
occupied so much of his thoughts for months past, which he had been
working out on paper, and building his future upon. It was, after all,
the slaying of a dragon in the only practicable nineteenth century way;
and perhaps the mediæval dragon meant nothing more than a great public
danger which the knight-errant had to face and subdue and kill, or
reform into an amiable and sociable monster, as could be done to the
great river, which, a tyrant and destroyer sometimes, was at others the
delight and help of man. All these ideas passed through his head as the
train plunged along, with little interludes of lover-like dreaming and
surprises of softer thoughts. He would recall to himself Elly on the
common, as she looked when she had given herself to him, and next moment
would be running over long lines of calculations in his mind,
calculations made over and over again, which it was a satisfaction to
prove and reprove, lest there should lurk any weak points in them. How
to perfect them in every final detail, to carry them to the firm, to
demonstrate the greatness of the undertaking, the impossibility of
failure--which, indeed, would at once be plain and evident to those
skilled eyes, was to be his occupation now. After that everything would
be plain sailing enough, he felt. He had meant to delay a little, to
wait until he was himself a little more mature. But what did that
matter, after all? He was only all the more adapted to superintend and
carry out the work for being so young as he was. Young as he was he was
a fully trained engineer, and already works of some importance had been
committed to his hands. He was equal to any fatigue and any exertion in
the carrying out of this, and there could be no doubt that he was the
only fit person to work his own plan to completion. As a matter of fact
he had no doubt about anything, either in the plan itself, or his
capability of executing it, or its instant and entire acceptance by
those who had so long been looking for something of the kind.
He had thus so much to think of, that when the quickening of speed, the
suburban stations whirling by, and all the signs which announce a near
arrival at the end of a journey, made it clear that London was at hand,
he was half sorry, and felt that he had not had half time enough for all
he had to think about. He gathered up the two primary subjects of his
thoughts as he did the books and newspapers which he had not read, being
concerned with more pressing matters, and jumped out of the carriage
with his bag in his hand with the sense that he had not a moment to
lose. It was a long train, and there were a great many passengers,
porters running about after the luggage, a crowd of cabs waiting; and in
the hurry John strode along, intending to mount up upon the knife-board
of an omnibus which passed the end of the street in which his lodgings
lay. But it was not fated that he should do this so simply as he
intended.
As he made his way through the crowd he met with an unexpected
interruption. Some one called him two or three times in a voice which he
remembered at once as somehow familiar, though he did not understand it
for the moment. It was like a voice in a dream calling to him, though
not by his own name? Was it not his own name? With a slight start he
remembered it and what it meant.
‘Mr. May-- John May!’ cried the voice which became breathless with the
hurrying of its owner towards him. John looked round, and saw close to
him a figure which he had not seen for a long time; a tall man, taller
than ever in consequence of his increased leanness and meagreness, with
a tall hat, more shiny than ever by reason of extreme wear and
shabbiness, and the glaze of poverty. John had seen very little of
Montressor since the time when he had first made his acquaintance, on
his arrival in town. From time to time a chance meeting in the streets
had made it apparent to him that the poor actor’s hopes that his affairs
would take a turn and that fortune once more would favour him, were not
likely to be realised, as also that there were agencies at work which
were likely to keep him down more than any spite of fortune. John, in
his studious boyhood, keeping himself clear from all distraction, was
not likely to be tolerant of any moral weakness of that description, and
he had avoided the chance acquaintance who had come so suddenly into his
life, but yet had never failed when a meeting occurred to greet him
kindly, and to ask after the child whom he had saved from injury. Now
and then when Montressor’s face looked more gaunt, and his clothes were
more poverty-stricken and his talk more big than usual, John would send
a present to the little girl, which he could see was eagerly accepted.
There were times even when he would meet the poor actor two or three
weeks in succession lingering about the end of the street where his
lodgings were, and John had an understanding that the wolf was at the
door, and that the five shillings he sent to buy little Edie a doll were
probably of use for more serious needs: then perhaps for months or an
entire year he would see the shabby figure in that hat which was always
shiny, and the clothes which were always threadbare, no more.
For one thing, John, in his serious young manhood, had altogether
outgrown the boyish petulance which had induced him to call himself May.
Whatever had been the cause of his mother’s abandonment of that name, he
felt sure it must have been a just cause. He had gradually grown into a
respect which was not either sympathy or filial feeling for his mother
and her decisions, and the hot boyish opposition to all she desired,
which once boiled in his veins, was there no longer. In the gravity of
twenty-one, which felt like ten years more after his studious and
serious youth, he was willing to confess that he had been very foolish
at the moment of grief and passion when he had left home and the tender
care of the old grandparents, to enter upon life. And the sight of
Montressor, and his appeal to him by the name which he had assumed for
that moment only, always brought an acute pang of recollection and
shame.
And yet he had never informed the actor that his name for ordinary
purposes was not May. Something withheld him from any such
confession--indeed, for that and other reasons he made his interview
with the actor as brief as possible when he met him, and was glad to buy
him off with that five shillings for Edie, though he had not always been
rich enough to spare it easily. To-day he felt the call after him of
‘Mr. May-- John May,’ more disagreeable than ever. There was no telling
who might hear the respectable John Sandford addressed by that name, and
explanations are always difficult. He turned sharply round upon his
doubtful acquaintance, raising his hand to stop the call.
‘Do you want me?’ he said, in a tone which perhaps was somewhat sharp,
too.
‘Me young friend, I am delighted to see you,’ said Montressor; ‘it is
ages since we have met. Let me help to carry your things, me excellent
young hero--for such ye are ever to me. The chyild is well, and always
remembers her deliverer--in her prayers, me dear May, in her prayers.’
‘Poor little Edie! I am very glad to hear she is well, and I hope you
are as busy as I am,’ said John, with an uneasy smile. ‘I scarcely have
a moment I can well call my own,’ a statement which was largely
influenced by his desire to get away from any prolonged interview now.
To tell the truth, Montressor, gaunt and shabby in his shiny hat, was
not the sort of person with whom a highly respectable young man would
care to be seen standing amid the crowds of a railway station in London,
in what was still the full light of day.
‘Ah, me dear young fellow, ye’ve got a solid occupation by the hand,
thank ye’r stars for it; not a slippery standing upon the slopes of Art;
be thankful for it,’ said Montressor, with the air of consoling one of
the inferior classes for his disadvantages. ‘In me own profession,
though ye may mount up to the skies, ye are likewise exposed to all the
tricks of fortune, that jade: and malice and spite may drive ye down to
the depths, where, alas! Montressor is now.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said John, ‘but you had an engagement?’
‘I had--an engagement: but the conspiracy that’s pursued me from me
youth has once more coiled its meshes about me feet. Ah!’ cried
Montressor, with a sort of hissing through his teeth, ‘if I could but
hold the heads of that hydra in me hands and crush them for ever! But
let us not speak of that,’ he continued, with a fling over his shoulder
of some imaginary burden. ‘Let’s not speak of that: it disturbs the
pleasure of this friendly meeting and does no good, John, when, me dear
young friend, it’s a pleasure beyond telling among all our own troubles
to see an example of success and prosperity in you.’
‘Yes, I have got on very well,’ said John, half mollified, half
impatient; ‘but I have a great deal to do. I am rushing home now to see
after some plans.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ said Montressor, ‘for though I’m not the
well-known man I once was, me young friend, to be seen with Montressor
will do ye no harm.’
‘I’m not going to walk--further than the omnibus.’
‘Then I’ll go as far. It’s not friendship moves me this time, me young
friend, though for friendship to my chyild’s deliverer I’d go further
still. I told ye I knew a man of your name, a poor fellow that got into
trouble long ago. He’s been in seclusion, poor man, for his country’s
good, don’t ye know? Poor devil! and he’s what the French call a good
devil, too, poor wretch--a kyind creature--one that would give ye a
share of his last crust--ay, and do a thing for any man that asked him,
without considering if it was according to the law or not.’
‘That’s awkward,’ said John, ‘a man should draw the line at that. It
doesn’t do to go against the law.’
‘No, it doesn’t do--that’s what it is. The case may be as bad as ye
please, hard or unjust or---- but ye mustn’t go against it. That’s what
poor May can’t be got to see, poor devil: and he is terrible poor, and
he’s got no friends.’
‘I am very sorry, Mr. Montressor: but I don’t see that I can do any
good.’
‘No, but being of the same name you might find a way. Me young friend,
t’would be a real charity. For the thing is he has a family, but don’t
know where to find ’em. It’s a pitiful story: and you’re of the same
name. Now give me a little of your attention, me young benefactor, for
that ye are and always have been. It isn’t much that’s in Montressor’s
power now. But, look ye, if I could find this poor devil’s friends and
put him in kind hands, I’d be happy with the sense that I’d done one
good action: and, me dear May, oh, me dear young May----!’
‘What does it matter,’ said John, ‘that I’m of the same name? What can I
do? I could give you a few shillings for him, that’s all I could do.’
‘The shillings,’ said Montressor, ‘are not wanted yet. There’s money
enough as yet. But if his own friends were to take him back he might be
kept from harm, and where he is he’ll be in trouble again before a
month’s out. Me dear friend, among the Mays ye belong to isn’t there one
that’s gone wrong? Isn’t there one that’s disappeared out of ken. Think,
me boy, me dear boy, it’s the saving of a fellow-creature, it’s the
delivering of a soul!’
The actor stood still in the middle of the pavement to say this in his
most impressive tone, and John perforce stood still with him, his bag in
his hand, his coat on his arm, and confusion and annoyance in his face.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I know nobody. I’ve--no relations of that name. Pray let
me go. I’ve a tremendous evening’s work before me. I can’t really, so
far as I’m aware, be of the least use to your friend.’
‘Think it over,’ said Montressor, ‘think it over. Ye’ve too good a heart
not to help if ye can. Think it over, me dear May. I will tell me wife
and me chyild I have seen ye, which is what they always hear with
pleasure--with pleasure,’ he said, with emphasis.
The actor looked very poor, very thin, very bare of everything. His
appearance suddenly struck John as they stood side by side in the
crowded street. The omnibus was already in sight, bearing down upon him
with its freight of men. John was very eager to escape, to get to his
own business, to plunge into the plans which he so confidently expected
were to bring him fame and fortune. But it suddenly occurred to him what
a contrast to his own confident youth was this poor man at the other end
of life, who had made his try and failed: and who out of the depths of
his poverty and downfall, was pleading for another who had failed more
bitterly than himself. The pathos of it struck John in the midst of his
impatience to escape from it, and his natural youthful disinclination to
have painful matters which he had nothing to do with, thrust upon him
like this. He hated it, he was impatient of it, he longed to escape and
feel himself in face of his own success which he held to be so certain;
but a certain glistening wistfulness in the actor’s eye, and his
reluctance to be left behind, and the shabbiness of his garb and aspect
altogether, moved John’s heart in spite of himself. The young man
adopted that expedient which is so general, with which most of us are
so willing to buy off distress and free ourselves from the sight of
misery. He took out one of his few sovereings--for though he was
sufficiently well off he did not abound in money--from his waistcoat
pocket.
‘I have not seen Edie for a long time,’ he said, ‘and she must want much
bigger dolls now than the one she used to be so fond of. Will you give
her this for me, and tell her to buy something with it. And I’ll come
and see her soon. Here’s my omnibus. I am sorry I can’t do anything for
your friend. Good-bye.’
‘God bless ye,’ said the actor. ‘Ye’re always the same fine fellow. Edie
will bless ye, me brave boy. But think over the other case that I’ve
told ye of. Think it over, and good-bye, and be sure ye come. We’ll look
for ye, and Edie---- Good-bye. Good-bye!’
John did not care that even the people on the omnibus should see the
shiny hat which was waved to him with so much enthusiasm. But there was
nobody he knew, and presently, as he bowled along, his former thoughts
came back to him and he himself forgot this interruption which was only
momentary. Montressor’s friend, whose name was May, attracted but little
his preoccupied mind. There had, indeed, been a time when it might have
excited him, when he had been so anxious about the mystery of his
childhood that anyone bearing that name would have roused his attention.
But that phase was altogether over. If he ever thought of his boyish
visit to Liverpool, and the mayor whose name was May, and all the
anxiety he was in to affiliate himself somehow, it was with a smile of
mingled self-ridicule and shame. Nothing now could make him anything but
John Sandford, which was as truly his name as any name could be, which
he had made known as that of a young man sure to rise, one who had the
ball at his foot and before whom the way was clear.
He was doomed to interruptions, however, that evening. He had just
settled down to his work after a hearty meal, laying out his papers upon
the table and disposing himself to a last inspection of all his
calculations and diagrams, when his landlady, a woman who had the
greatest respect for John, tapped seriously, with a tap that evidently
meant something, at the door. She came in, when John bade her enter,
with a grave face.
‘Mr. Sandford,’ she said, ‘there has been two men here asking for you as
are not your sort at all. One is like a poor gentleman as has got into
trouble, and the other’s no better than a rough off the streets. They’ve
been here twice asking to see you. I don’t know if they’ve anything to
do with the works. Once they was both the worse for liquor. I don’t like
to have such folks seen at my door.’
‘I know nothing about them,’ said John. ‘I certainly expected no such
visitors. Did they say what they wanted?’
‘They wanted the gentleman as lived here. When I asked if it was Mr.
Sandford, the old gentleman, he gave a sort of a cry, but he was that
weak on his legs he could not be very clear in his head, I don’t think:
and then they commenced again, and they said as you’d been kind to them,
and they wanted to see you. And if you’ll peep out of the window behind
the curtain you’ll see them coming along the street. And kind or not
kind, Mr. Sandford (though I know you’re a good-hearted young
gentleman), they ain’t the sort of folks, take my word for it, to be
coming to a respectable house.’
John glanced from the window, as he was told: and there he saw
approaching the two men whom he had encountered on the steps of the
office the night before he went to Edgeley--the tramp whom he had
already come in contact with several times before, and the man who had
gone to sleep against the closed door, and whom he had rescued and taken
to safe lodgings for the night. He had forgotten the adventure in the
press of other thoughts, but now it came all fresh to his mind.
‘Oh, these men,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do know them, though I don’t know who
they are. If they want to see me, let them come in, Mrs. Short, for
once.’
‘If I were you, sir, I’d send them half-a-crown, and say as you were too
busy, and better they should come no more.’
‘Well, I _am_ very busy,’ said John. He hesitated for a moment, looking
at his papers, thinking the half-crown would be well expended: and then
another sentiment moved him which he could not explain to himself, a
curiosity, a melting of the heart. Here was some other direful failure;
a crash still worse than Montressor’s and Montressor’s friend--while he,
John Sandford, was so strong in youthful success. ‘No,’ he said, ‘poor
souls, I’ll see them. Let them come in, this once.’