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.