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.