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.’