THE OLD HOUSE.
John was not convinced, though he was a little discouraged, by Mrs.
Egerton’s speech. To say that none of his people _belonged_ there when
the two, the only two who had trained and loved him, were lying side by
side, unalterable inhabitants; and when all the associations of his
boyhood, all he knew of home, was in this place! He was a little
aggrieved, wounded and troubled by that phrase. They had always been so
kind. It had never been made known to him in any way that he did not
belong--that is, that he was not one of the known and accredited
families who alone were on the same level as the Spencers. He knew
indeed that he was not on the same level with them--he could remember,
now he thought of it, the gratitude of his grandparents and their
gratification at his adoption into the circle of the rectory. And there
was nothing unkind in what Mrs. Egerton had said; perhaps she meant
nothing at all; and, if she did mean anything, it was the kindest,
mildest suggestion that he had perhaps no particular right to assume a
place as one of the village aristocracy.
If she did mean that, John said to himself that he was not going to be
discouraged by such a small matter. He was not, as a point of fact,
connected with any great family like the Spencers. He was perhaps
nobody, going to be the architect of his own fortunes; but why should he
have less love for the scene of his early associations because of that?
He went away a little earlier than he might otherwise have done, after
the luncheon to which Mr. Cattley came with Percy, though he had said he
should not. It was a very pleasant luncheon; nothing could have been
brighter than the table, and the looks of the two ladies at least. There
was a little too much clerical talk, talk about the parish; but then
perhaps that was natural in a clerical house, and under the stimulus of
a brand-new curate, just in harness, and much enamoured of his new
position and power.
Percy was a little overpowering, all-pervasive, bringing back the
conversation if it ever strayed for a moment from the regulation
subjects, and Mr. Cattley was a little subdued, saying little, evidently
feeling the oppression of this novelty, as well as the deepening
influence of his approaching departure. John himself, sitting opposite
to Elly, not able to avoid looking at her, getting accustomed to her new
aspect, was not capable of a very lively part in the conversation. But
yet it was all pleasant, and everybody was kind. He walked away alone
afterwards down the village street, saying this to himself. Nobody could
be more kind. John had no other friends to receive him in that way. When
he had been in America and other places far from home, holding an
important place in ‘the works,’ he had been thus entertained on various
occasions; but at home he knew nobody, and lived in his own rooms in a
very recluse fashion. To be so familiar at any family table, to be
called by his Christian name--(though Percy said nothing but Sandford)
was an unaccustomed pleasure, and one that he could enjoy only here.
But, nevertheless, a cloud had come--even since the morning, since his
first welcome. Then there had not been any cloud--now it was only to be
divined from austere movements of Mrs. Egerton’s eyelids and tones of
her voice: and yet John felt that it was there. ‘A little place quite
out of the way, with which you have no real family connection.’ That was
true enough: he understood what she meant, though he had never thought
of it, or been moved by it before. The Sandfords were not established in
the county, like the Spencers--they were nobodies, most likely:
grandfather and grandmother had not been on the same level as the rector
and Mrs. Egerton. It was quite true. It was only a cloud like a man’s
hand, not so much. But still it was enough to spread a cold chill
through that warm, sunshiny, delightful air of May.
With this in his mind, John walked down the street to see the old house.
Notwithstanding the chill, he had not in the least degree changed his
mind. If it was a silly thing, he would still do it. He did not pretend
to be wise. He would please himself, whatever Mrs. Egerton might say;
indeed, what she had said had confirmed him in this his intention, as
sensible opposition so often does confirm us in the silly things which
our hearts desire. And, when he got to the house, he found, to his
surprise, that it would not be so difficult as he had supposed. It
appeared that a good deal of the simple, old furniture had not been
sold. And he felt as if it might have been a cleaning-day, such as some
he recollected, and that grandmamma might be in some of the other rooms,
taking refuge from the tubs and the charwoman, who had always been
called in to help Sarah on such occasions. His heart and his eyes filled
as he went over the house. The recollections of his childhood took
possession of him, both sad and pleasant. All the happy past of his life
had been spent there. He had known no vexation or misery there; nothing
but hallowing grief, which is the one painfullest thing upon which the
heart can go back without bitterness. He thought of them going away one
after the other, and of his own desolation and the emptiness of the
house; but how sweet these recollections were in comparison with what
followed: and how much sweeter, tenderer, more delightful the happiness
then, than even that buoyancy of well-being and self-satisfaction with
which he had come back!
John retraced his steps after that survey with a subdued and softened
heart; and he met Elly in the middle of the village street. She was
walking quickly when he perceived her first, with her head turned
towards his house, and every appearance of having a distinct aim and
purpose in her walk. But, when she saw him, her intention seemed to
change. Her aim suddenly failed her, her pace slackened, and an
embarrassed look of not knowing where she was going came into her face.
John did not understand this at first, until it suddenly flashed upon
him that she might be going to meet him there. No doubt she perceived
the chill that had come over him, and had hastened to console him. He
hurried on to meet her, but, when he did so, found that she was turning
off in another direction, with a look which was full of embarrassment.
‘I thought perhaps you were coming to take another look at the poor old
place,’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ cried Elly, but her face contradicted her words.
‘I have just been going over it: the garden looks the same as ever: they
have changed nothing; and the rooms could very easily be restored; they
were never very much, never anything fine.’
‘They always seemed delightful to me,’ said Elly, simply.
‘I was very presuming to ask that of you about the chairs,’ he said. ‘I
don’t know that I ever fully understood it before to-day. I am sure you
will consider how young I was, Miss Spencer, only a boy----’
‘Miss Spencer!’ she cried. ‘Jack, is that my name?’
‘I suppose it must be,’ he said. ‘To come back and find you--as you are:
after being so silly as to hope that we should meet just the same as
ever, and that I should find you a child still----’
‘Then you were disappointed in me, Jack?’ she said, in a low tone.
‘Disappointed!’ he cried. Then, after a pause: ‘Of course, it comes to
the same thing. You are a young lady now; you’re not my old
schoolfellow. I daren’t speak to you as I used, or think of you as I
used. Many a dreary time, when I’d nothing else to be a little comfort,
I’ve thought of what you said, that you would learn your algebra under
the pear-tree and think of me.’
John was sad enough, for all the differences rushed upon his mind, and
seemed to push him away from her side; and yet he could not but smile,
thinking of the algebra which Elly never could learn. She understood
him, for she smiled too.
‘I gave up the algebra a long time ago,’ she said, ‘almost as soon as
you went away--for how could I learn it without you to help me? But I
still kept going to the pear-tree all the same, and--thinking of you.’
‘That was very good of you, Elly.’
‘Ah, come, that’s something like,’ she cried. ‘Do you think, Mr.
Sandford, whatever happened, I should ever call you anything but Jack?’
‘That’s another thing--that’s natural; what could I be else? You may
call me Jack, Jack, like a dog, if you please; but that doesn’t mean
that I should be wanting in any respect to you.’
She gave him a look, half entreating, half upbraiding, and then she
said, quietly,
‘Were you going to the--churchyard, Jack?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I go, too?’
‘Oh, will you, Elly?’
That was the best way to dispel the prudery that had taken hold upon
him. He could not be anything but natural beside _their_ graves. This
was what Elly said to herself, knowing very well, all the while, that
his prudery, as she called it, was the most natural of all, and that he
and she sedately walking along together to make that sacred visit, were
boy and girl no longer, and could not be Elly and Jack to each other
again, save in a spasmodic and artificial way. Did not she know this as
well, better than he?--for, naturally, the subject was one which
presented itself in a stronger light to Elly than it could to John. But,
nevertheless, it was agreeable to her to meet him in this way, and get
over the dangerous barrier, if not permanently, at least for a little
while. They went to the grave, all covered with May flowers, and kept
in careful order, as John could see, and where Elly busied herself in
picking out imaginary weeds and faded blooms leaving the young man free
to think or pray, as he pleased.
It is to be feared that John thought more of her than of _them_. He gave
them a momentary thought in their stillness and calmness, so long ago
delivered out of all commotion and trouble, and then his mind fled to
matters more urgent, to the young creature bending over them, who was so
familiar yet so unfamiliar, who woke so many bewildering, new sensations
in his heart. John felt that it was intended to take Elly from him, and
did not know how to oppose this, yet was determined to oppose it. It
would not be Elly’s fault if she was separated from him. What was he to
do to keep hold of her, to prevent the severance? He was grieved at
himself that this was the foremost subject in his mind at his
grandparents’ grave. But how could he help it? and they, if they were
permitted to see, if they knew anything about it, they would understand;
John felt that if they perceived him standing thus over their last
resting-place, as we instinctively feel that those whom we have lost
must do, that they would not resent the perturbation of his mind or
think that it meant neglect or forgetfulness, but would understand
entirely and without mistake; for have they not ‘larger, other eyes than
ours?’ After a while, he went away and took a little turn among the
graves by himself, Elly all this time stooping over the spot, and
picking off every leaf that marred the perfection of the flowers. When
he returned he put his hand softly upon her arm, and called her to come
away.
‘Elly,’ he said, ‘I have something more on my mind than these graves.
They are not there. They would not like me to give myself up to it as if
they were there.’
‘No, Jack,’ she said.
‘Therefore they would not blame me, and you shouldn’t, for what I am
going to say. It was you I was thinking of, Elly. It is you that mean
home to me, it appears, and all that I care for. Elly, there are other
ways of thinking at the rectory: they will not let it be if they can
help it.’
She trembled a little, and asked, softly, ‘What will they not let be,
Jack?’
‘Oh, Elly, that I should look to you so for sympathy; that you should be
my dear friend; that you should be Elly to me. You allow me to say it,
but they wouldn’t. And what am I to do without you?’ he said, in full
sincerity and alarm. He did not at all think of her in the matter, which
perhaps was natural enough.
‘Don’t think of that, Jack. Call me what you have always called me, and
think of me as you have always thought. If you give it up as if you were
frightened, that may put what you say into their heads.’
‘But I see the justice of it,’ said John. ‘You are not a little girl,
but a beautiful young lady. What right has a fellow like me, without any
recommendations, with nothing in his favour except being very fond of
you, what right have I to call you Elly? My judgment agrees with theirs,
though I think it will break my heart.’
‘I see no occasion for any judgment on the matter,’ said Elly, raising
her head with a certain pride. ‘If you think so, I can’t help it. But
I’ve always been allowed to have an opinion of my own: and since I
choose to be your friend as we have been all our lives, and to call you
Jack--and be Elly to you--let them, if they have any objections, make
them to me.’
‘How sweet you are and how you look! like a guardian angel,’ cried poor
John, ‘but they will not let that be, either. For they will say I have
no right to appeal to you at all, that I ought to know better; that I am
a man and have been about the world, and you are only a girl----’
‘If you think I am _only_ a girl,’ cried Elly, with great offence, ‘it
can’t be any matter to you whether I stand by you or not, a thing of so
little account!’
‘You know that is not what I mean,’ said the boy, with a long-drawn
breath that was almost a sob. He, who was so much older than his age,
felt now what a young, helpless, impotent being he was before all that
force of opposition and good sense and fact. ‘I wish,’ he cried, looking
at her with a certain fond impatience, ‘that you were only a girl as you
used to be, with your hair waving upon your shoulders--I wish you had
put off growing up for a few years, Elly! You are a woman now, and as
good as a queen. And it is right they should keep everything from you
that is not the best. I understand it quite well, and I agree with it,
though it is against myself.’
Elly flushed and grew pale again while he was making this speech: and
matters had grown very serious, for there was no telling what in his
excited condition he might say next. She looked at him for a moment
doubtfully, and then she put her hand on his arm in a way she had often
done when they were boy and girl together, not to lean upon him, you may
be sure, which was not at all Elly’s way, but to push him on before her
on the way which she had determined was that he ought to go.
‘I don’t know what is the good of talking like this,’ she said, ‘making
yourself unhappy and me too. Wait till somebody objects. What is the
good of going and meeting bother before it comes? It is time enough to
stand on the defensive when somebody attacks us. You were always fond of
making sure that something was going to happen: and generally nothing
happened. Do you remember the time when we upset the ink bottle over Mr.
Cattley’s sermon--when you expected for a whole week we should get into
disgrace, and he only laughed to Aunt Mary about it, and did nothing to
us at all?’
‘I remember about the sermon and the ink-bottle,’ said John, too young,
even in the excited state of his feelings, not to be moved in the first
place to self-defence, ‘but I thought it was----’
‘Oh, never mind what you thought--it came all right,’ cried Elly, with a
little impatience. But, as a matter of fact, John could not forget,
though she puzzled him for a moment by that sudden imputation of
causeless forebodings that it was Elly who had been afraid.