GOING BACK.
It was with some difficulty that John persuaded his old landlady to take
in his unfortunate _protégé_. But the woman had a great respect for the
young man who had done so well, and allowed herself finally to be
induced to do a charity, which was what he assured her it would be, at a
rate of payment double that which she could have procured in the
ordinary way. He went home with a curious commotion in his heart. The
incident was quite new in his experience. He had never been deaf to the
appeals of charity. When any of the men at the works got hurt, when
there was sickness or death among them, John was known to be always
ready to contribute what he could for the comfort of the sufferers or
the relief of the widow. This was almost the only manner in which it
had come in his way to help his fellow-creatures. To enter of his own
accord into schemes of beneficence had not occurred to him. He had
shrunk even from the undertakings which Percy Spencer, when in London,
had told him of, in which young men were working for the poor. John,
though he was not at all humble-minded in ordinary ways, had a certain
diffidence and modesty in this. He had not been conscious of any
capacity in himself to exercise ‘a good influence.’ He knew too much and
too little to take it up in good faith as these young men did--too much
of himself, too little of the others. What he could do to help an
individual who came in his way, or whom he knew, he did quietly, and
this chiefly in material ways; paying rent, sending for a doctor,
helping to set up a little shop, or buy a mangle. This he could do; but
he could not ‘exercise a good influence:’ or, at all events, he was
timid and did not try. He paid doubly and beforehand for the hesitations
and alarms of his old landlady, who took in with so much doubt this poor
gentleman, who was not in a condition to take care of himself, and
promised to make up for any damage he might do, should she suffer by
her charity; but John did not feel any desire to talk, or to give him
good advice.
The man was got not without difficulty to bed. His aspect to the young
man seemed quite different from that of the ordinary sinners in the same
way, whom he had seen often enough. He had a confused look of kindness
and that jovial good-nature which appears in the Bacchanalian literature
of the past, not like the sodden misery of drunkenness in the present
time. Perhaps this social vice, which is so terrible in its
consequences, has changed its characteristics, like other things. The
man seemed to have the merry twinkle in his eyes when he opened them now
and then, the humorous consciousness as of a bizarre and irresponsible
condition which was not culpable, which belonged to an age when
indulgence was common and supposed to be a venial fault, and associated
with all sorts of fun and good-fellowship. Tipsiness bears no such
aspect now: it is dull, sodden, miserable, a shame to see. The victim in
the present case was as different as possible from the brutal drunkards,
the wretched, pale, self-conscious sinners of a higher sphere, whom
John had beheld with scorn from his eminence of youthful virtue. His
eyes were not blear and sodden, as the eyes of such offenders are
now-a-days, the gleam of mirth in them had no guilty look. ‘If you think
I don’t see how ridiculous it all is, you are mistaken,’ they seemed to
say.
To think that John should ever have been moved to an almost sympathetic
amusement by the looks of a man whom he had picked up in a state of
intoxication in the street--to think that he should have been so much
touched by his appearance as to pick the man up, to transport him to
this familiar place, to exert himself so distinctly on behalf of an
ex-convict, a criminal, a drunkard! How was it? he could not tell: and
yet, after he had seen the unhappy man lying quietly asleep, John went
away with a curious emotion in his heart. For one thing, the being to
whom we have been kind, whom we have effectually served, always acquires
an interest to the mind; our own consciousness of bounty, of charity,
still more of mercy, throwing a favourable light on the recipient of it.
And John said to himself that to have left a man who had at least the
remains of something better about him, who had come out of prison
perhaps with the intention of leading a different life, in the hands of
such a coarse ruffian as Joe, was a thing which no one would willingly
do. It was found, too, by the curiosity of the landlady, who emptied the
poor man’s pockets in order that John might see that all was safe, that
he had a considerable sum of money in his possession, which was a very
strong reason why he should not be handed over in a helpless condition
to the tender mercies of a penniless frequenter of the streets. John
would not look over the contents of his _protégé’s_ pocket. He saw and
counted the money at the woman’s request, but the other things he folded
away in a sealed packet, with that high sense of the sacredness of
personal belongings which is peculiarly strong in youth.
And then he went home with the consciousness of having done a good
action, which is also peculiar to his age, making his heart and step
still more buoyant. It was a sort of seal to all his well-being, to his
majority, to his new and complete independence. On this first day of
perfect manhood (as he thought) to have served a fellow-creature, to
have perhaps delivered a soul out of pressing danger, anyhow to have
secured the poor man’s safety and that of his money till he should be
fit to look after himself. Poor old fellow, what a pity! Was it possible
he could have nobody to take care of him? And what, with that cheerful,
humorous face so full of good temper and geniality, could he have done
to merit imprisonment for fourteen years? John, whose conscious life was
almost included in that term, shivered as he thought of it. To be shut
up in prison for fourteen years, and then to come out of it, and find no
friendly face, no hand to meet his, but only those of Joe!
Next day, however, John was sent away to look after some work which was
going on at a distance, and when that was completed the time had arrived
when his leave of absence began, and he was free to go to Edgeley. The
press of work, and then the rush of other interests and commotion, drove
the poor man whom he had succoured out of his mind. He had intended
vaguely to go to Mrs. Bentley’s to inquire after him when he returned
to town; but with the visit to Edgeley before him, and all the rising of
things new and old in his mind, it was not wonderful if this momentary
interest failed. A vague surprise that the man himself had taken no
notice, also went across the surface of his thoughts, but this he soon
perceived was somewhat unreasonable, since there was little ground for
thinking that he was at all aware who his helper was, or whether in
reality anything had been done for him. John had scarcely time indeed to
think of the matter at all, until he was travelling, in the seclusion of
a railway-carriage to Edgeley, a moment in which all the omissions and
forgetfulness of an immediate past are apt to come into our heads. But
they did not last long in John’s. He was going--back. He could not call
it home, after four years--having in the meantime no knowledge, save by
letters at long intervals, as to what the changes were which he might
find there. Susie had excused herself from accompanying him, but had
promised to follow in a day or two, and John had secured for himself a
lodging at Mrs. Sibley’s, where Mr. Cattley still was. The very names
gave him a thrill of feeling: to pronounce them lightly again as
everyday matters seemed so strange. The first return after a long
absence is not like any other. When it becomes a matter of use and wont
to go and come, the mind gets accustomed to the thought that life goes
on in many places at a time, almost entirely unaffected by its own
presence and absence. But to John the village had been suspended in a
sort of crystal of memory since ever he left, and, although he knew this
was impossible, he half expected he should find it so suspended, only to
be restored to the current of a progressive existence on his return.
He travelled by night, as busy men do, and he could almost have believed
that this fancy was real, when he arrived in the early morning and found
the houses still half asleep, opening their eyes and shutters, awaking
to life as he came back. He had put his portmanteau on the omnibus
(which was something new; there had been no omnibus when he left), and
walked across the common in the early glory of the morning, everything
so fresh and sweet around him. The hedgerow on the one side, and the
tufts of bushes and low trees on the other, were all glistening with the
early dew. There were many fine things in London, and the trees in the
parks were looking their best and freshest in the May weather, but John
reflected that either there was no dew there, or else it fell when
nobody knew, or--a still less poetical explanation, it became so black
with the soot in it that it was more like ink than dew upon the leaves.
But here it was a sort of elixir of life, so pure and glistening, every
drop like a little heaven. He walked on slowly, willing to put off the
realisation of the world he had known so well, now that he found this
world so near to him. A thousand nameless odours seemed to be going up
to heaven: the smell of the fresh earth, of the growing grass, of the
heather that began to push upward in strong green bushes, of the gorse
unfolding its honey blossoms, of the sweet briar in the hedge: and along
with all these an indefinite sweetness of the morning which could not be
explained, which was partly physical and partly spiritual, a sweetness
that went into the very soul. John could not but remember the many times
he had come along this way: but his recollections were winterly, or
they were pictures of the night, when the village lights had been
shining, and the common lost in the darkness. Above all he recollected
the silent drives he had taken with his mother to and fro, when he had
met her for the first time, when he had disowned her and called her
Emily, a memory which made his cheek burn and sting; but it was not his
fault. He did not think of her as Emily any longer. He respected her and
all she said and did: but his heart was not much nearer to her than when
he had sat by her side with his head turned the other way, in a
concentrated still opposition to her and all her ways.
These recollections and reflections chilled him a little as he walked
along; but soon happier thoughts came. The scenes of his old life began
to pass before him like a succession of pictures. Mr. Cattley’s room,
with all the books lying about, and the two photographs, her own and
John’s, which Elly had fastened over the curate’s mantelpiece when they
ended their lessons--would they still be there in the same place? and
how had Mr. Cattley made up his mind to go away? and how was it possible
to imagine Percy at the reading-desk and in the pulpit as Mr. Cattley’s
successor? This thought made John laugh. And then he seemed to see the
rectory garden rolling out before him, and Elly and himself coming so
very quietly down the walk after that kiss which had been such a
solemnity. Would she recollect that, and grow red (as John felt himself
to do all alone in the soft, uninquisitive light of the May morning),
when she met him again? and had she remembered what she had said about
the pear-tree and her algebra, which she was to study there? She was
never very good at her algebra: that was the very best thing she could
have been doing when she wanted to think of John. He came along smiling,
thinking of all that, not of the old house and the old people, which
were too sacred, which were put off to a time when he should be less
conscious of the curiosity and amusement and wonder of coming back to
the old place, and seeing it awake, as the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ must have
seen the world awake round her, rubbing its eyes and stretching forth
after years of suspended animation, taking up once more its natural
life.
The ‘Green Man’ stood open, but not with the dissipated air, the look of
tremendous wickedness and riot which it once had borne. He thought it an
innocent-looking little village alehouse now, with no harm about it: and
Johnson, blinking over his early pipe at the door, no monster at all,
not even bloated, but very much like other men. Mrs. Box had finished
taking down her shutters, and the perambulator stood at her door just as
of old, and the milkman was coming along with his shining cans, looking
up and shading his eyes from the sun, as he looked in obedience to a
question from the woman he was serving, as to who the gentleman was who
was crossing the road towards Mrs. Sibley’s. ‘One o’ Mr. Percy’s
friends,’ the milkman said, by way of maintaining his character for
universal knowledge, yet not committing himself. It was curious to John
to see that nobody recognised him, neither the porter at the station nor
the postman whom he met, and whom he felt so strong an inclination to
stop and ask for the letters as of old. He felt pleased, and yet a
little troubled and somewhat desolate. The great difference there must
be in him he took for granted must be to his advantage: and yet it was
dismal to pass like a stranger through a place which he knew so well.
Mrs. Sibley, however, who expected him, knew John, and received him with
an enthusiastic welcome, and in due time so did Mr. Cattley, who hurried
downstairs, half-dressed, to grasp his old pupil by the hand.
‘Is it possible that it is you, John? I doubt, really, whether I should
have known you. You have grown a great deal, and got a very manly look.
Are you really only twenty-one? I should have thought you four or five
years older if I had not known.’
‘I’ve been knocking a great deal about the world,’ said John.
He was pleased to be supposed to look older, like most lads of his age.
‘Yes, I know. I’ve always looked up on the map where you were, to tell
Elly. She likes to see the exact place and find out all about it. You’ve
not--no; of course you cannot have seen Elly since you came?’
‘I have come straight from the station,’ said John. ‘I did not so much
as see anyone stirring at the windows in the rectory as I passed.’
‘I am surprised at that,’ said the curate. ‘She was so anxious to be the
first to see you. She had half a mind to go to the station. But I
thought it better not, and on the whole so did she, for Percy--that is
to say, he is apt to take fancies in his head.’
‘What fancy could he take into his head?’ John asked, ‘that could
concern me?’
The curate cleared his throat, and after a moment changed the subject as
well as he could.
‘You find me still here, John, though perhaps I should have gone before
now. For my part I daresay I should have stayed on all my life: but when
Percy got old enough to hold the curacy it seemed to be thought that I
should go.’
‘I am sure they will all miss you dreadfully,’ said John.
‘Do you think so?’ said Mr. Cattley, with doubt in his tone. He sighed a
little, but then cheered up again. ‘Well, perhaps it is true that I
ought to go. I’ve been here a long time, and perhaps, as Mr. Egerton
says, if I delay longer--but I’m a man of use and wont, John, perhaps
too much so--perhaps too much so.’ Mr. Cattley sighed softly again, then
roused himself, and added, with sudden briskness, ‘But you must want
your breakfast--of course after travelling all night you want your
breakfast. Mrs. Sibley, I hope you have been thinking of Mr. John’s
breakfast--for you know he has been travelling all night.’
‘It’s quite ready, sir,’ said Mrs. Sibley, ‘and a pleasure it is, sir,
if you’ll excuse me saying it, to see him again.’
‘Why should I excuse you saying it? It is the most natural thing in the
world to say. We all think it a pleasure. And tell me, John,’ said the
curate, ‘do you find this night travelling suit you? I know business
people think it saves time, but it seems to me to knock you up next
day.’
‘I have been so used to it,’ said John. ‘I don’t mind. I can sleep
nearly as well as if I were in bed. In some places where I have been,
all the best trains go by night, and in America, where the distances are
so great, you have to make up your mind to travel night and day.’
‘Dear me, what a traveller you have grown,’ said Mr. Cattley. ‘It is
astonishing to look at you and to think you have been in America and at
the ends of the earth.’
John laughed a little and settled his collar, and felt the superiority
of his position.
‘I have been about a great deal,’ he said, with conscious modesty. He
could not but feel that he was coming back in the way he had wished and
anticipated, with colours flying and drums beating, and the certainty of
having done not only as well as anyone could have done, but far better
than could have been expected. Mr. Cattley unwillingly going away to his
living, and Percy stepping into the post which had been kept thus warm
for him, were fulfilling the ordinary law of nature. But John might just
as well have done nothing in particular, have contented himself with
holding his place and no more. He sat down at the table in the old
bow-windowed room, where all his early education had been given him,
with a still warmer thrill of self-approval. It is so seldom that one
can feel one’s self to have done more than one’s duty. The two little
photographs were still over the mantelpiece where Elly had placed them.
The room was exactly the same as it had always been: yet in himself what
a difference! But the difference in his case was all for the better. It
was not perhaps altogether the same with Mr. Cattley. And with the
others, too, how would it be?