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?