That day John’s future career was determined summarily, without any further consultation of his wishes.

It was the career he had himself chosen, the very same career about which there had been so many consultations at home in the old times. This was how he described to himself a period so very little withdrawn from the present moment. At home—he had no home now, nor even a shadow of one. It was the profession he had chosen; Elly’s trade; the one they had fixed upon in their youthful fervour as the best for the advantage of the race, as well as for the worthy work and fit advancement of the young workman, who, in his way, was still to be a Christian knight. To make lighthouses and harbours for the safety of travellers at sea, and roads and bridges for the advantage of those at home—that was how the boy and girl had regarded it, or rather the girl and boy; for John had taken the matter from the beginning more soberly than Elly, taking satisfaction in the idea of learning surveying and all the other necessary preliminaries, even mathematics, at which he had always been so much the best. But when he was called to another interview in his mother’s room at the hospital, and with her pen in her hand, suspended in the midst of the reports she was writing, or the accounts she was making up, Mrs. Sandford had given him the letter which he was to take to a certain address, and so begin work at once, John’s heart rose within him in resistance and indignation.

‘I have settled everything,’ his mother said. ‘You will have nothing to do but to send up your name and this note. Well, it is what I understood you had set your heart upon; isn’t it so? You want to be an engineer. So my father said.’

‘Yes, I want to be an engineer,’ John replied.

‘And they were sending you to a foundry in Liverpool—which is quite a different thing—when I interfered. You were not grateful to me, though your grandmother also, I believe, had been very, very much against it. You wanted to go there because I did not want you to go. Wasn’t that the reason? You must put away those childish ideas, John. Understand, once for all, that it is your real good I am seeking, and that it can be of no advantage in any way to retain this position of antagonism to me.’

‘I wish no antagonism,’ said the boy. ‘I think everything is settled very quickly, very—summarily. I think I might know a little. I am nearly eighteen. I might be allowed something to say.’

‘Be silent, Susie,’ said Mrs. Sandford, ‘there is no reason why you should interfere. You have been allowed a great deal to say. I have followed your own lead altogether. I might have put you into a merchant’s office, which would have been more in my way—but I have adopted yours without a word. You could scarcely point out to me the right people to apply to, I suppose? It is only so far as this goes that I have acted for myself. But I don’t see that this conversation can do us any good, John. Mr. Barrett is a great supporter of the hospital, he is a very good man, and he is one of the first in his profession. He will take you, rather for my sake, it is true, than your own, but that can’t be helped at your age; and, as he takes you without any premium, that is so much to your advantage. He will settle how you are to begin and all about it when you go to him, which I hope will be at once—to-day.’

John went away with his letter without saying any more, and he carried out his mother’s orders, but without any pleasure in the beginning, though as a matter of fact it was his own choice. That she meant his good, that she was doing the best she could for him, he believed, though grudgingly; but why should she do it so hardly, without grace or kindness, without anything that could make it pleasant? How often may such a question be asked; how impossible to answer it. To mean everything that is best in the world, to take trouble to do it, to heap solid benefits on the head of a dependant, a child, or retainer; and yet to do it all so as to make the kindness an offence, almost an insult. What a curious perversion is this of everything that is best and tenderest! John’s mother was substantially right as well as substantially kind. She had chosen the best guidance for her son. She had in no way thwarted his inclinations. She had indeed followed their natural bent, taken trouble to find the means of satisfying them; and yet! John went away without a word. He obeyed her and his fate. But he thus attained his own wish as if it had been a hardship, and submitted as to a fiat pronounced in entire indifference to his wishes. What he would have liked to do as he crossed the bridge, and felt the playful gust of the April wind in his face, would have been to drop the letter into the river, and go away in one of those outward-bound ships, on one of those clanging railways which made a black network all about, to the end of the world. That would have pleased him indeed! To throw the letter into the dark, quick-flowing tide, to disappear and be no more heard of: and finally, years after, to re-appear prosperous and great, John May, and bring wealth and reputation with him. His mind dallied with this dream as he went along, and especially as he crossed the bridge, which suggested freedom and movement. There is no thought that is so apt to come to a very young mind. To go away mysteriously, suddenly, leaving no trace, and in the future—that future which is scarcely further off to seventeen than to-morrow to a child—to come back triumphant to the confusion of all prophets of evil. Sometimes the young dreamer will carry out his vision, bringing misery and self-reproach to those he leaves behind, but coming back in most cases far from triumphant, forced by destitution or misery, perhaps, or at best disenchanted and dreary, dazzling no one with the success which has ceased to be sweet. Perhaps John, who had a great deal of sense, divined this—at all events, he was held by those bonds of duty which had lain on him lightly in the past, yet had created a tradition and necessity of obedience, which nothing he had yet encountered was strong enough to abrogate. He felt the temptation, but it never occurred to him as one to which he could yield—and though his heart was in revolt and his pride all in arms, yet he trudged along soberly across the river to Great George Street, where he was bound, without any active resistance, feeling himself under the guidance and control of an unkindly fate.

He was received not unkindly, however, though with great gravity, by Mr. Barrett, the gentleman to whom his mother’s letter was addressed, and who questioned him as to his studies, how far he had gone in his mathematics, and whether he had made any acquaintance with the special work of the profession he desired to take up. Mr. Barrett was a very serious person, indeed, in a dress that was almost clerical, and with manners more solemn than ever clergyman had, which is a curious effect not unusual among lay persons who assume the attitude of advice and exhortation, which is supposed to be the special privilege of the clergy. Mr. Barrett’s necktie was not white, but the grey and black with which it was striped were faint, producing a sort of illusion in point of colour; and his manners were more distinctive even than his tie.

‘I know your mother,’ he said, ‘she is an excellent woman, a most worthy person. Her son ought to be satisfactory, and I hope you will prove so; but she has had many trials, much more than fall to the ordinary lot.’

John did not make any reply; at all events nothing was audible of what he said, though in reality he kept up a fierce fire of response. ‘If she has had many trials she ought to have kept them from strangers,’ was what he said hotly within himself.

‘I trust you begin work with the hope and intention of making up to her a little for all she has had to bear,’ Mr. Barrett resumed. ‘She has been for many years under my personal observation, and anyone more devoted to duty I never saw.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said John to himself, ‘that is like Emily! not because she likes to do it, but because it’s duty,’ which was at once a hostile and foolish remark.

‘But you must remember,’ said his adviser, ‘that London is a place full of temptation and danger. Everywhere it is easy to go wrong; so much easier unfortunately than to do right; but in London the devil is roaring at every street corner, seeking whom he may devour. You must make up your mind to struggle stoutly against his wiles. I can’t even shut out of my office, though I try to be as careful as possible, those who prefer the broad path to the narrow; but I hope you will not let yourself be led away.’

‘I hope I shall do my duty, sir,’ said John, this time audibly enough, in a not very sweet or genial voice.

‘I hope you will—that is the right way to look at it: especially to a young man in your position, a great deal of care is necessary. Among my other pupils you will find some who have less occasion, as people say, to work. I don’t myself allow that. I think every man ought to work, and work with all his strength, if not for necessity, yet for—duty, as you say. But the sons of parents, who are well-off in this world’s goods, often take a great deal of licence, which you, Sandford, in your position, must not take as an example. You must keep your nose at the grindstone. It is doubly important for you in your circumstances.’

It was all that John could do not to demand audibly, as he did in his own consciousness: ‘What are my circumstances, then, what is my special position?’ His position had been a very good one all his life till now, the best in the village, after the rector’s family, their comrade and associate. He never had any occasion to think of himself as received on sufferance, as inferior to anyone. It wounded his pride bitterly to be compelled to look upon himself in this way.

‘Your advancement will depend upon yourself,’ Mr. Barrett continued. ‘It is for you to prove what you can do. After you have gone through your course of instruction, if you show yourself diligent, careful, and, above all, trustworthy, you will receive our best recommendation. But all this must depend entirely upon yourself. We can’t, of course, take you upon our shoulders and guarantee your future. This I hope your mother fully understands. I am willing to stretch a point for a woman who has acquitted herself so well under trying circumstances. But she must understand, and you must understand, that we don’t make ourselves responsible for you; you must in the end stand or fall on your own merits. The firm cannot carry you on their shoulders about the world—— ’

‘I hope no one expected anything of the kind,’ cried John, aching and throbbing with wounded pride.

‘No, no, I hope not. I think it is always better to make these things quite plain at first. The premium I remit with pleasure to such a worthy woman as Mrs. Sandford, to show my sense of her admirable conduct under very trying——’

‘I beg your pardon,’ cried John. ‘I don’t wish, for my part, to come in on better terms than the others. I don’t want any charity. I have not my own money at this moment, but I shall have it when I come of age, and I assure you there will be no difficulty about paying the premium then.’

Mr. Barrett looked at him with astonished eyes. To have charity cast back in his teeth is agreeable to no man. He stammered as he replied, with mingled indignation and astonishment,

‘I—I don’t understand you. What—what do you mean? Are you coming to me to propose an arrangement on your own account? or to complete one made by your mother?’ He regained his composure as he went on. ‘If this is temper, my young friend, we had better break off at once. I don’t want any touchy people taking offence about my place.’

His tone had changed. He had given up exhortation and good advice, and spoke sharply, with a ring of reality in his voice which brought John to himself.

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I am, perhaps, wrong. I don’t think I am ill-tempered or touchy. I do want to do my duty, and learn my work, and make my way. It was only the idea of charity: and I had never been used to it!’ John said.

‘I am afraid you’ll have a great deal to struggle with in your disposition, if that’s how you take things,’ said Mr. Barrett, shaking his head. He added, quickly, ‘I don’t know that I’ve time to go into the question of your feelings. The manager will tell you about hours and all arrangements. I hope he will have a good account to give of your work and progress. Good-day.’

This was all he made by his outburst of impatience and indignation. He left a disagreeable impression on the mind of his new employer, and went out himself sore, humiliated, and injured, feeling himself in the wrong. It was not his fault, he said to himself. It was the different position in which he found himself, so different from the past. That he should be of no account, received, if not out of charity, at least out of a humiliating kindness, because of his mother’s admirable conduct in her trying circumstances—in what trying circumstances? John could not believe that his father’s death had been so tremendous a grief as all these sayings seemed to imply. And then to be no longer consulted, no longer even told what was going to happen to him, sent off with a note like an errand-boy getting a place!

The pride or the humiliation of the boy who has always felt himself to be somebody, and suddenly discovers himself to be nobody, is not of much consequence to the world. It is not of much importance even to himself. In most cases it does him a great deal of good, and he lives to feel this, and smile at the keen pangs of his boyhood. And yet there are few pangs more keen. They cut like knives through the sensitive fibres of poor John’s heart, and the only refuge which his pride could take was in imagining circumstances in which he should vindicate himself—tremendous accidents, in which his courage and presence of mind should avert catastrophe, misfortunes in which he should be the deliverer—the most common of imaginations, the most usual of all the dreams of self-compensation. It was with his head full of all these new complications that he returned—not home, which was the word that came to his lips in spite of himself. Not home, he had now no home. Nobody could call Mrs. Sandford’s rooms at the hospital, home, not even Susie.

John’s heart swelled as he caught himself on the eve of using that antiquated word, that word which had no significance any more: and then he thought of Elly under the old pear-tree with her algebra, thinking of him. She had told him to think of her so. A little picture rose before him quite suddenly. Elly under the pear-tree with her algebra! A smile flickered to his lips at the thought. She would be sure to think of him, for she was not very fond of algebra, and, to escape a little from those mystic signs and symbols, Elly would be glad to take refuge in recollections of her friend who was almost like a brother. He thought he could see her under the old pear-tree, with the wind in her hair, lifting the long, heavy, beautiful locks. The pear-blossoms would not be over yet, the sun would make it shine like an old castle with turrets of white. Mr. Cattley would still look over Elly’s algebra and shake his head. Oh, yes, he would shake his head more than ever; for John would not be there to suggest a way out of those thorny paths, and Elly would not make much of them without that help. It gave him a sensation of pleasure, as if he had escaped for a moment from all the gravities of fate, into that cheerful garden, and found a glimpse of something like home in Elly’s bright face.

‘You must find fresh lodgings, nearer to your work,’ said Mrs. Sandford, when she received his report, which was given, it is unnecessary to say, with considerable reticence, and disclosed nothing about the little encounter with Mr. Barrett on the subject of the premium, any more than it did of that imaginary glimpse of Elly in the rectory garden. ‘I am very glad it is all settled so comfortably; but you must find lodgings nearer your work.’

‘I shall not mind the walk. After the day’s work I should like it.’

‘No. I should not like it for you. I don’t want you to get the habit of roaming about London. It is not good either for soul or body. A lodging near the office is best.’

‘You surely don’t mean to shut me up in the evenings,’ said the boy. ‘You don’t mean me to stay indoors all the night?’

‘It would be much better for you if you did—for yourself. You could find plenty to occupy you. You might carry on your studies, or, if you wanted amusement, you might read. Twenty years hence you will be pleased to think that was how you spent your nights.’

‘I can see no reason,’ he said, ‘why I could not do all that, and yet live where I am.’

‘That is because you love the streets,’ said his mother. ‘I know: oh, I did not require that you should tell me. You like the movement and the noise and the amusement.’

‘It is quite true,’ said John, ‘and is there any harm?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘did not I tell you, Susie—he is his father’s son.’