II.

“You remember me, Young Jackson?”

“What do I remember if not you?  You are my first remembrance.  It was you who told me that was my name.  It was you who told me that on every twentieth of December my life had a penitential anniversary in it called a birthday.  I suppose the last communication was truer than the first!”

“What am I like, Young Jackson?”

“You are like a blight all through the year to me.  You hard-lined, thin-lipped, repressive, changeless woman with a wax mask on.  You are like the Devil to me; most of all when you teach me religious things, for you make me abhor them.”

“You remember me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In another voice from another quarter.

“Most gratefully, sir.  You were the ray of hope and prospering ambition in my life.  When I attended your course, I believed that I should come to be a great healer, and I felt almost happy—­even though I was still the one boarder in the house with that horrible mask, and ate and drank in silence and constraint with the mask before me, every day.  As I had done every, every, every day, through my school-time and from my earliest recollection.”

“What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”

“You are like a Superior Being to me.  You are like Nature beginning to reveal herself to me.  I hear you again, as one of the hushed crowd of young men kindling under the power of your presence and knowledge, and you bring into my eyes the only exultant tears that ever stood in them.”

“You remember Me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In a grating voice from quite another quarter.

“Too well.  You made your ghostly appearance in my life one day, and announced that its course was to be suddenly and wholly changed.  You showed me which was my wearisome seat in the Galley of Barbox Brothers.  (When they were, if they ever were, is unknown to me; there was nothing of them but the name when I bent to the oar.) You told me what I was to do, and what to be paid; you told me afterwards, at intervals of years, when I was to sign for the Firm, when I became a partner, when I became the Firm.  I know no more of it, or of myself.”

“What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”

“You are like my father, I sometimes think.  You are hard enough and cold enough so to have brought up an acknowledged son.  I see your scanty figure, your close brown suit, and your tight brown wig; but you, too, wear a wax mask to your death.  You never by a chance remove it—­it never by a chance falls off—­and I know no more of you.”

Throughout this dialogue, the traveller spoke to himself at his window in the morning, as he had spoken to himself at the Junction overnight.  And as he had then looked in the darkness, a man who had turned grey too soon, like a neglected fire:  so he now looked in the sun-light, an ashier grey, like a fire which the brightness of the sun put out.