I RE-ENTERED the town a hungry man; the dinner I had forgottenrecurred seductively to my recollection; and it was with a quickstep and sharp appetite I ascended the narrow street leading tomy lodgings. It was dark when I opened the front door and walkedinto the house. I wondered how my fire would be; the night wascold, and I shuddered at the prospect of a grate full ofsparkless cinders. To my joyful surprise, I found, on enteringmy sitting-room, a good fire and a clean hearth. I had hardlynoticed this phenomenon, when I became aware of another subjectfor wonderment; the chair I usually occupied near the hearth wasalready filled; a person sat there with his. arms folded on hischest, and his legs stretched out on the rug. Short-sighted as Iam, doubtful as was the gleam of the firelight, a moment'sexamination enabled me to recognize in this person myacquaintance, Mr. Hunsden. I could not of course be much pleasedto see him, considering the manner in which I had parted fromhim the night before, and as I walked to the hearth, stirred thefire, and said coolly, "Good evening," my demeanour evinced aslittle cordiality as I felt; yet I wondered in my own mind whathad brought him there; and I wondered, also, what motives hadinduced him to interfere so actively between me and Edward; itwas to him, it appeared, that I owed my welcome dismissal; stillI could not bring myself to ask him questions, to show anyeagerness of curiosity; if he chose to explain, he might, but theexplanation should be a perfectly voluntary one on his part; Ithought he was entering upon it.

"You owe me a debt of gratitude," were his first words.

"Do I?" said I; "I hope it is not a large one, for I am much toopoor to charge myself with heavy liabilities of any kind."

"Then declare yourself bankrupt at once, for this liability is aton weight at least. When I came in I found your fire out, and Ihad it lit again, and made that sulky drab of a servant stay andblow at it with the bellows till it had burnt up properly; now,say 'Thank you!'"

"Not till I have had something to eat; I can thank nobody while Iam so famished."

I rang the bell and ordered tea and some cold meat.

"Cold meat!" exclaimed Hunsden, as the servant closed the door,"what a glutton you are; man! Meat with tea! you'll die ofeating too much."

"No, Mr. Hunsden, I shall not." I felt a necessity forcontradicting him; I was irritated with hunger, and irritated atseeing him there, and irritated at the continued roughness of hismanner.

"It is over-eating that makes you so ill-tempered," said he.

"How do you know?" I demanded. "It is like you to give apragmatical opinion without being acquainted with any of thecircumstances of the case; I have had no dinner."

What I said was petulant and snappish enough, and Hunsden onlyreplied by looking in my face and laughing.

"Poor thing!" he whined, after a pause. "It has had no dinner,has it? What! I suppose its master would not let it come home.Did Crimsworth order you to fast by way of punishment, William!"

"No, Mr. Hunsden. Fortunately at this sulky juncture, tea, wasbrought in, and I fell to upon some bread and butter and coldbeef directly. Having cleared a plateful, I became so farhumanized as to intimate to Mr. Hunsden "that he need not sitthere staring, but might come to the table and do as I did, if heliked."

"But I don't like in the least," said he, and therewith hesummoned the servant by a fresh pull of the bell-rope, andintimated a desire to have a glass of toast-and-water. "And somemore coal," he added; "Mr. Crimsworth shall keep a good firewhile I stay."

His orders being executed, he wheeled his chair round to thetable, so as to be opposite me.

"Well," he proceeded. "You are out of work, I suppose."

"Yes," said I; and not disposed to show the satisfaction I felton this point, I, yielding to the whim of the moment, took up thesubject as though I considered myself aggrieved rather thanbenefited by what had been done. "Yes--thanks to you, I am.Crimsworth turned me off at a minute's notice, owing to someinterference of yours at a public meeting, I understand."

"Ah! what! he mentioned that? He observed me signalling thelads, did he? What had he to say about his friend Hunsden--anything sweet?"

"He called you a treacherous villain."

"Oh, he hardly knows me yet! I'm one of those shy people whodon't come out all at once, and he is only just beginning to makemy acquaintance, but he'll find I've some good qualities--excellent ones! The Hunsdens were always unrivalled attracking a rascal; a downright, dishonourable villain is theirnatural prey--they could not keep off him wherever they met him;you used the word pragmatical just now--that word is the propertyof our family; it has been applied to us from generation togeneration; we have fine noses for abuses; we scent a scoundrel amile off; we are reformers born, radical reformers; and it wasimpossible for me to live in the same town with Crimsworth, tocome into weekly contact with him, to witness some of his conductto you (for whom personally I care nothing; I only consider thebrutal injustice with which he violated your natural claim toequality)--I say it was impossible for me to be thus situated andnot feel the angel or the demon of my race at work within me. Ifollowed my instinct, opposed a tyrant, and broke a chain."

Now this speech interested me much, both because it brought outHunsden's character, and because it explained his motives; itinterested me so much that I forgot to reply to it, and satsilent, pondering over a throng of ideas it had suggested.

"Are you grateful to me?" he asked, presently.

In fact I was grateful, or almost so, and I believe I half likedhim at the moment, notwithstanding his proviso that what he haddone was not out of regard for me. But human nature is perverse.Impossible to answer his blunt question in the affirmative, so Idisclaimed all tendency to gratitude, and advised him if heexpected any reward for his championship, to look for it in abetter world, as he was not likely to meet with it here. Inreply he termed me "a dry-hearted aristocratic scamp," whereuponI again charged him with having taken the bread out of my mouth.

"Your bread was dirty, man!" cried Hunsden--"dirty andunwholesome! It came through the hands of a tyrant, for I tellyou Crimsworth is a tyrant,--a tyrant to his workpeople, a tyrantto his clerks, and will some day be a tyrant to his wife."

"Nonsense! bread is bread, and a salary is a salary. I've lostmine, and through your means."

"There's sense in what you say, after all," rejoined Hunsden. "Imust say I am rather agreeably surprised to hear you make sopractical an observation as that last. I had imagined now, frommy previous observation of your character, that the sentimentaldelight you would have taken in your newly regained libertywould, for a while at least, have effaced all ideas offorethought and prudence. I think better of you for lookingsteadily to the needful."

"Looking steadily to the needful! How can I do otherwise? Imust 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 mywork from me."

"What do you mean to do?" pursued Hunsden coolly. "You haveinfluential relations; I suppose they'll soon provide you withanother place."

"Influential relations? Who? I should like to know theirnames."

"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 ofmy entering the Church; I declined both the terms and therecompence; I withdrew from my cold uncles, and preferredthrowing myself into my elder brother's arms, from whoseaffectionate embrace I am now torn by the cruel intermeddling ofa stranger--of yourself, in short."

I could not repress a half-smile as I said this; a similardemi-manifestation of feeling appeared at the same moment onHunsden's lips.

"Oh, I see!" said he, looking into my eyes, and it was evident hedid see right down into my heart. Having sat a minute or twowith his chin resting on his hand, diligently occupied in thecontinued 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 canhands stained with the ink of a counting-house, soiled with thegrease of a wool-warehouse, ever again be permitted to come intocontact with aristocratic palms?"

"There would be a difficulty, no doubt; still you are such acomplete Seacombe in appearance, feature, language, almostmanner, 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 anysympathy."

"I say you are one of them."

"That merely proves that you know nothing at all about it; I ammy mother's son, but not my uncles' nephew."

"Still--one of your uncles is a lord, though rather an obscureand 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 Idesired to be submissive to my uncles, I could not have stoopedwith a good enough grace ever to have won their favour. I shouldhave sacrificed my own comfort and not have gained theirpatronage in return."

"Very likely--so you calculated your wisest plan was to followyour own devices at once?"

"Exactly. I must follow my own devices--I must, till the day ofmy death; because I can neither comprehend, adopt, nor work outthose of other people."

Hunsden yawned. "Well," said he, "in all this, I see but onething clearly-that is, that the whole affair is no business ofmine. "He stretched himself and again yawned. "I wonder whattime it is," he went on: "I have an appointment for seveno'clock."

"Three quarters past six by my watch."

"Well, then I'll go." He got up. "You'll not meddle with tradeagain?" said he, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece.

"No; I think not."

"You would be a fool if you did. Probably, after all, you'llthink better of your uncles' proposal and go into the Church."

"A singular regeneration must take place in my whole inner andouter man before I do that. A good clergyman is one of the bestof men."

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

"I do, and no mistake. But I have not the peculiar points whichgo to make a good clergyman; and rather than adopt a professionfor which I have no vocation, I would endure extremities ofhardship from poverty."

"You're a mighty difficult customer to suit. You won't be atradesman or a parson; you can't be a lawyer, or a doctor, or agentleman, because you've no money. I'd recommend you totravel."

"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 involuntaryardour.

"Go: what the deuce hinders you? You may get to Brussels, forinstance, for five or six pounds, if you know how to manage witheconomy."

"Necessity would teach me if I didn't."

"Go, then, and let your wits make a way for you when you getthere. I know Brussels almost as well as I know X----, and I amsure it would suit such a one as you better than London."

"But occupation, Mr. Hunsden! I must go where occupation is tobe had; and how could I get recommendation, or introduction, oremployment at Brussels?"

"There speaks the organ of caution. You hate to advance a stepbefore you know every inch of the way. You haven't a sheet ofpaper and a pen-and-ink?"

"I hope so," and I produced writing materials with alacrity; forI guessed what he was going to do. He sat down, wrote a fewlines, folded, sealed, and addressed a letter, and held it out tome.

"There, Prudence, there's a pioneer to hew down the first roughdifficulties of your path. I know well enough, lad, you are notone of those who will run their neck into a noose without seeinghow they are to get it out again, and you're right there. Areckless man is my aversion, and nothing should ever persuade meto meddle with the concerns of such a one. Those who arereckless for themselves are generally ten times more so for theirfriends."

"This is a letter of introduction, I suppose?" said I, taking theepistle.

"Yes. With that in your pocket you will run no risk of findingyourself in a state of absolute destitution, which, I know, youwill regard as a degradation--so should I, for that matter. Theperson to whom you will present it generally has two or threerespectable places depending upon his recommendation."

"That will just suit me," said I.

"Well, and where's your gratitude?" demanded Mr. Hunsden; "don'tyou know how to say 'Thank you?'"

"I've fifteen pounds and a watch, which my godmother, whom Inever saw, gave me eighteen years ago," was my rather irrelevantanswer; and I further avowed myself a happy man, and professedthat I did not envy any being in Christendom.

"But your gratitude?"

"I shall be off presently, Mr. Hunsden--to-morrow, if all bewell: I'll not stay a day longer in X---- than I'm obliged."

"Very good--but it will be decent to make due acknowledgment forthe assistance you have received; be quick! It is just going tostrike seven: I'm waiting to be thanked."

"Just stand out of the way, will you, Mr. Hunsden: I want a keythere is on the corner of the mantelpiece. I'll pack myportmanteau before I go to bed "

The house clock struck seven.

"The lad is a heathen," said Hunsden, and taking his hat from asideboard, he left the room, laughing to himself. I had half aninclination to follow him: I really intended to leave X---- thenext morning, and should certainly not have another opportunityof bidding him good-bye. The front door banged to.

"Let him go," said I, "we shall meet again some day."