SUSIE.
John did not leave his new friends till late, and when he did so he felt
quite well, nay, more than well, in a state of elation and satisfaction
with himself and all the world. The pain from his wound was quite gone.
It had not been bad at any time. The shock only was what had affected
him. Now he remembered it no more, except that his hat, when he put it
on, pressed a little upon the place, which was only half hidden by his
hair. Mrs. Montressor had assured him that it would not show, but John
did not care whether it showed or not: he was, indeed, rather proud of
it, very willing to tell how it came about, and the whole story of his
adventure. He had supped with pleasure upon the sausages, and he had
shared with Montressor a steaming drink, hot and strong and sweet,
which had made him cough, but which gradually had brought a glow of
comfort over him. He had been a little afraid of it at first, and had
not taken much, but he was quite unaccustomed to anything of the kind,
and it mounted to his head at once, filling him with causeless elation,
satisfaction, exhilaration.
He felt pleased with himself and everybody round him. Montressor he
thought a capital fellow, and listened to him with admiration, and Mrs.
Montressor was awfully kind, and the little girl (whose life he had
saved--at first he had not allowed them to say this--but now he
acknowledged the fact with pleasure) was a dear little girl. He had
never enjoyed himself more. He was delighted with the adventure, and
felt that this was indeed life. He might have spent a whole century in
Edgeley without meeting anything of the kind. He got away at last with
difficulty, promising to come back. That is, Montressor endeavoured to
keep him longer, and John, to tell the truth, had been not at all
indisposed to stay. It was the woman who had urged his departure. She
had given a great many hints, she had, indeed, given John a warning
look when her husband got up to fetch the kettle to make more of that
steaming, odoriferous drink. She had even whispered in his ear to go,
saying that it was time for him to go to bed; and half offended, yet
half approving, John had obeyed. None the less he thought her awfully
kind, and Montressor a capital fellow.
He could not leave them his address, for the good reason that he did not
know it, though he felt sure that he could find his way back; but he
promised, with enthusiasm, to return, to keep up a friendship so
auspiciously begun, to hear more of those wonderful stories about the
theatre with which his new friend had delighted him. With what smiles
and shaking of hands, and promises to come back he got himself away!
stumbling a little in the darkness, as he came downstairs, getting out
into the night with that sensation of lightness and swimming in his
head, with that elation in his mind which was indescribable, which had
come he could not tell how. The air from the river blew in his face
again as he came out, and he paused a little to consider, to retrace
his steps in his own mind, and think out the best route. His conclusion
was that he must get back to the Strand, and follow the road which had
brought him here as well as he could, hoping to recognise the different
places he had passed, and the bridge by which he had crossed the river.
The Strand was as tumultuous as ever, but he paid much less attention to
it. He had passed that first and ordinary stage. The streets! He felt
that he knew now a little more about London life than was contained in
the streets. He no longer allowed himself to be pushed hither and
thither by the throng, but elbowed his way in the boldest manner, like a
person, he hoped, to the manner born, with that delightful sensation of
manhood and experience and satisfaction with himself. It was as if he
had wings to his head, like a classical personage. It seemed to soar,
and float, and carry him along. He could not help feeling that he had
made a fine _début_ in life, and jumped over a great many preliminaries.
He was already ‘in the swing,’ he felt. To be sure, his new friends were
poor: but that was a mere chance, and they might be rich again
to-morrow. Montressor was not only a capital fellow, he was, by his own
showing, a man of genius; and what a thing to leap in a moment, on his
first step in London, into the intimacy of such a man! Of course he was
a Bohemian, but everybody knew that Bohemians were the most amusing
class; that all artists belonged more or less to it; that it was
sausages and porter one night with them, and the next truffles and
champagne.
Notwithstanding the pleasurable sensations with which John set out on
his walk, it was no small business to get home. Nothing could be more
confusing than the streets, the corners which he seemed to recognise,
and then felt that he had mistaken, the curious windings of the way, the
impossibility of distinguishing one from another. He seemed to himself
to have been walking for hours, much hustled and knocked about, but
serenely indifferent in his happy state of mind, when he became aware of
the great mass of the Houses of Parliament rising against the sky of
night, which now was full of stars and soft clearness; and the bridge
leading away from all the noise and crowding into darkness and quiet.
He scarcely paused this time to look at the carriages coming and going,
but passed by with a pleasant consciousness that there were other
centres of existence almost as important as that of Parliament. He knew
nothing really about Parliament, beyond what everybody knew, beyond what
was in the papers every morning: but his head was buzzing with anecdotes
of the great people of the drama, the ‘stars’ whom Montressor knew, and
among whom he had figured, and hoped to figure again. The names of these
distinguished persons rustled confusedly through the boy’s brain. He
almost felt that he had been supping with them, hearing all their wit.
What a fine thing to have come so near that brilliant sphere on his very
first night in town! And Montressor had promised him tickets for the
first night on which he should himself assume the leading place to which
he had been accustomed.
‘A box, me dear young gentleman, to which you can take the ladies of
your family,’ that, high-minded individual had said; ‘for ye will never
see the name of Montressor in any play-bill where the performance is
not fit for a refined female’s eyes.’
John found this phrase delicious as it came back to his mind--‘a refined
female.’ It was like ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ he said to himself. But at
that moment he came in sight of the great hospital looming up against
the sky, and its shadow came upon him like--like what?--like the shadow
of death, he would have said in a graver mood, like a wet blanket, he
said in his levity. But even the levity sank when he perceived that the
lights were very faint in the great building, and that along the row of
little houses opposite, so far as he could see, there was but one point
of light, and that a very feeble one. Then, for the first time, John
began to think that this new and delightful experience of his might have
a very different aspect from another point of view. All was very still
in the little street. If he had to knock to rouse the landlady, the echo
would carry, he thought, ever so far, would penetrate the big walls
opposite and wake the sick people, and disturb one stern sleeper. How
should he explain himself? The first night! that which made the
experience so delightful, made it also rather dreadful from the other
side: for how could he make it clear to _her_ that it was the first time
he had ever essayed the adventures of the streets? His heart failed him
as he drew near the house, and indeed he was not quite clear about the
house, among so many others exactly the same.
His steps as he came along made a noise upon the pavement which
frightened him. He thought confusedly of the steps stumbling along the
street in the village when the public-house closed, and how the old
people, if by chance they were up so late, would shake their heads. He
seemed to hear the stumble, the little interval of dulled sound when
those late passengers took the softer path along the garden wall; then
the sudden access of noise, when they arrived, with a swerve and lurch,
upon the bit of pavement. Good heavens! Might people inside these houses
hear his steps and think the same? for it seemed to him that he, too,
stumbled and swerved and scraped along the pavement. This, however, was
but a momentary chill; he said to himself what did it matter? he was
all right; there was nothing to be said against him; and, with an
attempt to call up the elation of mind which had nearly worn out, and a
step which was jaunty in attempted carelessness, he went on. The
jauntiness, however, was a little marred by the necessity of examining
the houses to see which was his own. They were so horribly like each
other! John did not know how to make sure which was the right one in the
imperfect shining of the few lamps, and under the shadow of the
hospital. He went past the lighted window, and then returned again. Some
one, he thought, was looking out at the edge of the blind; but then no
one could be looking out for him.
A door opened softly while he was trying to find something by which he
could recognise the house, and then a voice, more soft still, whispered,
‘John--John Sandford? Is it John?’
He turned back with a thrill of mingled alarm and relief, and at the
same time a quick start of contradiction.
‘I’m John--John May,’ he replied, with a sudden confused impulse. ‘Is
this the house?’
‘Oh, come in. Oh, come in! You don’t know me? I’m Susie. Oh, John, John,
where have you been? I have been waiting for you for hours. Oh, John!’
She had pulled him into the little parlour where one candle was burning,
and looked at him strangely, with a look of terror and distress. She
threw her arms round his neck, then drew back without kissing him, and
cried again, in a tone of reproach, ‘Oh, John, John!’
‘What is it!’ he said. ‘Are you Susie? What is it? I went out for a
walk. I did not know anyone was coming to-night.’
She stood looking at him fixedly. He had taken off his hat, and the
plastered cut, which Mrs. Montressor said would not show, showed, alas!
painfully upon his forehead, though half covered by the ruffled hair,
which by half concealing made it appear greater than it was. He caught
sight of himself at the same time in the little glass over the
mantelpiece. He was very pale, his hair very much ruffled by the wind,
his shirt a little disordered in the dressing of his wound, his coat
imperfectly brushed by the Montressors, showing still some signs of a
fall--and in his eyes a sort of wildness which he himself saw, but did
not understand.
‘What is the matter with you, Susie--if it is Susie. Why do you look at
me so? What have I done? I lost my way, and I am dreadfully tired,’ he
added, sitting down, suddenly falling into despondency as great and
causeless as his elation had been before.
‘Where have you been? You have been in a--row, or something. Oh, John,
John! I came rushing, so glad, so glad to see my brother. Oh, I’ve
looked for you so long! and to find you like this, like this, at last!’
and she covered her eyes with her hands.
‘Like what?’ he said, feeling his lips stammer in spite of himself, his
voice thick. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She uncovered her eyes and gave him a look--such a look--of love and
pity, and horror and dismay.
‘Oh, John,’ she said, ‘oh, John!’ as if all reproach and all tenderness,
and everything that the heart could say of blame and forgiveness and
heavenly pity, were in that utterance of his name.
He knew nothing of that which put meaning and misery into her cry. No
one had ever warned him, no one had enlightened him, the facts were all
unknown, yet something of the feeling in her suddenly stricken and
aching consciousness came into his.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said again. ‘You think I’ve been doing
something wrong. It isn’t true. It’s very, very strange, to have to
defend myself the first time I see you--the very first night----’
‘Yes,’ she said, with an echo in her voice, which made the words seem
like the very climax of despair, ‘the first night!’
‘She has put you against me,’ said John.
‘She!--you mean---- Oh,’ cried Susie, turning upon him in sudden
indignation, ‘you may think you are taking his part, calling yourself by
that name, putting yourself against us; but he never, never did that. He
knew all along, and always acknowledged--always acknowledged----’
It was John’s turn now to question. He asked:
‘Who do you mean by _he_?’ in a hurried, choked voice.
Then Susie came suddenly to herself.
‘We have enough to think of without going back to old, unhappy things,’
she said. ‘Oh! John, I’ve had such hopes of you. I’ve thought you were
to make up for everything. We’ve never gone near you to disturb you in
your life. Mother said it was better so--to leave you with the old
people, where all was so good and quiet, and harm was not known--that
was what she said. Oh, how often we’ve talked of you, John; and when she
told me you would not have her for your mother, she said there was
nothing else to be expected, and that it did not matter so long as you
escaped the curse, so long as you were kept good--so long---- And now!’
‘The curse?’ said John, awed, confused, overcome. Things began to come
to his mind dimly, vaguely, turning to perhaps another point of view.
‘And now I suppose this is the very first time you have ever been
free,’ said Susie, in a tone of despair, wringing her hands. ‘The first
night in London--where you came with your heart full of grief, and no
evil thoughts-- Oh, none! mother said so. But the very first time you go
out, the first time you have the chance, the first night--oh, it is
cruel, cruel! the first night---- Oh, John, John, John!’
‘What have I done?’
There was no elation about him now. His serenity of soul was gone, and
all the floating visions of pleasure, and assurance that this was life.
He half understood what she must mean, because he felt what a difference
had taken place in him, and how ridiculous his thoughts of half-an-hour
ago began to appear.
‘You come in late,’ she said, ‘very late. You have a cut in your
forehead; you have mud on your coat and your knees. You’ve fallen
somewhere, and been hurt. You come in quite jaunty and gay, and then,
before I have said anything almost, you sink down and don’t know what to
say.’
‘Almost!’ he said, with a scornful intonation--almost nothing meant
everything that could be said or hinted, it seemed to John. He had
never known before what domestic altercation or fault-finding was. It
was the strangest novelty in his life. The old people, perhaps, would
have been anxious too. They would have asked him all about it--they
would not have liked him being so late. But how different their
indulgent waiting for his explanation, from this sudden indictment, so
full of implications which he did not understand. The Houses of
Parliament, and the bustle of the Strand, and Montressor with his
stories, might be new, but this was newer, still more strange to him.
And yet she was so unhappy that John could not resent it. He had
gradually come back to himself, to the boy who had never been misjudged,
of whom nobody had ever suggested harm. His good sense returned with his
recollection. After all, he had done nothing to be ashamed of. He
thought of the steaming hot drink which had made him wince and cough,
and then had made him feel so much at his ease, so full of
self-appreciation. If that was wrong, then it was all that was wrong.
He collected his faculties while he sat thus silent, looking at his
sister, the sister of whom he had always thought so tenderly, but to
whom now it seemed he had brought such cruel disappointment. How was it?
The accusation seemed to him so false and unreasonable that he could not
understand how it could be maintained. And he was not angry; this gave
him an immense advantage, he thought--not angry, but only astonished
more than words could say.
And then he told her the whole story from the beginning to the end, with
a tone of apology which surprised himself, but which did not convince
her, he saw. And yet there was nothing to apologise for. It was a good
thing, not a bad, he had done. He had saved the child: if perhaps
Montressor had made too much of it, still it was not a bad action to
throw one’s self into the middle of the street to pick out a little
unknown child from under the horses’ hoofs. He had no reason to be
ashamed of it. He felt his breast swell a little with involuntary
self-approval as he went on. No, there was nothing to be ashamed of. The
cut on his forehead began to hurt him a little as he talked of it. He
had not taken time to think of it before. But now, when he did think of
it, it hurt, and he felt a little pride in the consciousness. And then
there were the Montressors. Well, he did not know anything about them,
to be sure, but they had been very grateful to him, and he had felt
shaken, not very able to walk, confused in his head.
‘You should have taken a hansom and come home,’ said Susie. ‘You might
have known we should be anxious. If you had done that, all would have
been well.’
And she shook her head at the story of the Montressors, listening in
silence to all he said. John heard his voice grow more and more
apologetic, though he did not mean it. They were kind people, they had
been very good to him; why should he apologise for them? But yet his
voice took this tone. When he had done, there was a silence, a silence
which was full of disapproval. Susie sat with her head on her hand. She
said nothing, she did not even look at him. The pain of his first alarm
was over, but her mind was not satisfied. After a while she rose, and,
going up to him, put an arm round him.
‘Promise me,’ she said, ‘dear John! Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, my little
brother that I have always longed for! Promise me it shall not happen
again.’
‘What shall not happen again?’ He shook himself free of her, with an
irritation which was as new to him as all the rest. ‘What do you mean?
Promise never to pick up a child under the horses’ feet; never to make
acquaintance with anyone that is kind; never to---- What do you mean?’
‘Oh, dear, dear boy, what shall I say? Don’t you know what I mean? John,
it’s _that_ we’re frightened for, mother and I; it brings everything
that’s bad with it. It is destruction. Oh, it is nothing to-night, I
know; it may be quite innocent to-night: but it’s never innocent, for
it’s the bringing of all harm. John, it was _that_ which brought all our
trouble upon us: and you should be more careful than anyone, for you’ve
got it in your veins.’
‘What?’ he cried, almost with violence, in the exasperation of his soul.
But she made no reply. She gave him a look that was full of meaning, if
he could have read it, and, stooping over him, kissed him on the
forehead. Then, with a sigh, left that painful subject, whatever it
might be, and proceeded to occupy herself with the little details of his
rooms and his comfort.
‘You have never unpacked your things,’ she said. ‘Give me your keys, and
I will do what I can, though it is too late to do much to-night. If you
had stayed in, and unpacked your things, then we should have had such a
pleasant evening together. I came over as soon as I could get away, and,
oh! how disappointed I was to find you gone. But never mind. You did not
think of that--how should you? Perhaps you had forgotten Susie
altogether, you were so little when you went away.’
‘Why was I sent away? It would have been better, far better never to
have parted,’ said John; and then he added, ‘I never forgot you, Susie.
I think you haven’t changed much. I remember you all this time. You
stood at the door and cried when I went away.’
‘And many, many a time after,’ she said, looking up, with tears in her
eyes. ‘Oh, many a time; I missed you so. Oh, Johnnie, perhaps you are
right. We should have known all the things to guard against, while
grandfather and grandmother----’
‘No,’ said John. ‘I am wrong; it would not have been better. They were
happier to have me. I am glad they had a child till their death to love
them, not one like Emily, but me----’
He stood up, looking not like the boy she thought him, but like a young,
indignant angel, with his head raised and his nostrils quivering. Susan
took the woman’s part. She began to wonder at and admire him, and to
feel herself in the wrong, as indeed she was.