The Professor

‘Looking steadily to the needful! How can I do otherwise? I must live, and to live I must have what you call ‘the needful’, which I can only get by working. I repeat it, you have taken my work from me.’

‘What do you mean to do?’ pursued Hunsden coolly. ‘You have influential relations; I suppose they’ll soon provide you with another place.’

‘Influential relations? Who? I should like to know their names.’

‘The Seacombes.’

‘Stuff! I have cut them.’

Hunsden looked at me incredulously.

‘I have,’ said I, ‘and that definitively.’

‘You must mean they have cut you, William.’

‘As you please. They offered me their patronage on condition of my entering the Church; I declined both the terms and the recompence; I withdrew from my cold uncles, and preferred throwing myself into my elder brother’s arms, from whose affectionate embrace I am now torn by the cruel intermeddling of a stranger – of yourself, in short.’

I could not repress a half-smile as I said this; a similar demi-manifestation of feeling appeared at the same moment on Hunsden’s lips.

‘Oh, I see!’ said he, looking into my eyes, and it was evident he did see right down into my heart. Having sat a minute or two with his chin resting on his hand, diligently occupied in the continued perusal of my countenance, he went on:

‘Seriously, have you then nothing to expect from the Seacombes?’

‘Yes, rejection and repulsion. Why do you ask me twice? How can hands stained with the ink of a counting-house, soiled with the grease of a wool-warehouse, ever again be permitted to come into contact with aristocratic palms?’

‘There would be a difficulty, no doubt; still you are such a complete Seacombe in appearance, feature, language, almost manner, I wonder they should disown you.’

‘They have disowned me; so talk no more about it.’

‘Do you regret it, William?’

‘No.’

‘Why not, lad?’

‘Because they are not people with whom I could ever have had any sympathy.’

‘I say you are one of them.’

‘That merely proves that you know nothing at all about it; I am my mother’s son, but not my uncles’ nephew.’

‘Still – one of your uncles is a lord, though rather an obscure and not a very wealthy one, and the other a right honourable: you should consider worldly interest.’

‘Nonsense, Mr Hunsden. You know or may know that even had I desired to be submissive to my uncles, I could not have stooped with a good enough grace ever to have won their favour. I should have sacrificed my own comfort and not have gained their patronage in return.’

‘Very likely – so you calculated your wisest plan was to follow your own devices at once?’

‘Exactly. I must follow my own devices – I must, till the day of my death; because I can neither comprehend, adopt, nor work out those of other people.’

Hunsden yawned. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘in all this, I see but one thing clearly – that is, that the whole affair is no business of mine.’ He stretched himself and again yawned. ‘I wonder what time it is,’ he went on. ‘I have an appointment for seven o’clock.’

‘Three quarters past six by my watch.’

‘Well, then I’ll go.’ He got up. ‘You’ll not meddle with trade again?’ said he, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece.

‘No; I think not.’

‘You would be a fool if you did. Probably, after all, you’ll think better of your uncles’ proposal and go into the Church.’

‘A singular regeneration must take place in my whole inner and outer man before I do that. A good clergyman is one of the best of men.’

‘Indeed! Do you think so?’ interrupted Hunsden, scoffingly.

‘I do, and no mistake. But I have not the peculiar points which go to make a good clergyman; and rather than adopt a profession for which I have no vocation, I would endure extremities of hardship from poverty.’

‘You’re a mighty difficult customer to suit. You won’t be a tradesman or a parson; you can’t be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a gentleman, because you’ve no money. I’d recommend you to travel.’

‘What! without money?’

‘You must travel in search of money, man. You can speak French – with a vile English accent, no doubt – still, you can speak it. Go on to the Continent, and see what will turn up for you there.’

‘God knows I should like to go!’ exclaimed I with involuntary ardour.

‘Go: what the deuce hinders you? You may get to Brussels, for instance, for five or six pounds, if you know how to manage with economy.’

‘Necessity would teach me if I didn’t.’

‘Go, then, and let your wits make a way for you when you get there. I know Brussels almost as well as I know X—, and I am sure it would suit such a one as you better than London.’

‘But occupation, Mr Hunsden! I must go where occupation is to be had; and how could I get recommendation, or introduction, or employment at Brussels?’

‘There speaks the organ of caution. You hate to advance a step before you know every inch of the way. You haven’t a sheet of paper and a pen-and-ink?’

‘I hope so,’ and I produced writing materials with alacrity; for I guessed what he was going to do. He sat down, wrote a few lines, folded, sealed, and addressed a letter, and held it out to me.

‘There, Prudence, there’s a pioneer to hew down the first rough difficulties of your path. I know well enough, lad, you are not one of those who will run their neck into a noose without seeing how they are to get it out again, and you’re right there. A reckless man is my aversion, and nothing should ever persuade me to meddle with the concerns of such a one. Those who are reckless for themselves are generally ten times more so for their friends.’

‘This is a letter of introduction, I suppose?’ said I, taking the epistle.

‘Yes. With that in your pocket you will run no risk of finding yourself in a state of absolute destitution, which, I know, you will regard as a degradation – so should I, for that matter. The person to whom you will present it generally has two or three respectable places depending upon his recommendation.’

‘That will just suit me,’ said I.

‘Well, and where’s your gratitude?’ demanded Mr Hunsden. ‘Don’t you know how to say “Thank you”?’

‘I’ve fifteen pounds and a watch, which my godmother, whom I never saw, gave me eighteen years ago,’ was my rather irrelevant answer; and I further avowed myself a happy man, and professed that I did not envy any being in Christendom.

‘But your gratitude?’