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.’