A NEW INFLUENCE.
‘Percy, did you talk to John?’
‘Oh, yes. I talked to him a great deal,’ said Percy, without meeting his
aunt’s anxious eye.
‘But about the one subject? About----’
‘Most subjects in earth and heaven.’ He paused a little, and then
resumed with embarrassment. ‘If you mean about Elly, Aunt Mary--I--I
didn’t. That’s the fact. His sister was there, and---- somehow it didn’t
seem suitable,’ the young man said.
‘Of course his sister was there. You knew she was expected: and of
course you could not speak before her: but surely there were
opportunities.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Percy, ‘but I didn’t, that is all that can be
said.’
‘Your courage failed you at the last? Well, I don’t wonder: indeed I
like you better for it,’ said Mrs. Egerton. ‘I did you injustice, my
dear boy. I thought you rather liked the commission. That just proves
how wrong we are in forming hasty judgments.’ Percy accepted this
conclusion without wincing, and, after a moment of reflection, his aunt
added, ‘I am afraid it will have to be done, though, and who is to do
it? Your father is no good, and, as for me, I cannot trust myself. I
wonder if Mr. Cattley---- but then Mr. Cattley is very fond of Jack.’
‘He is much fonder of you, Aunt Mary.’
‘Don’t put it in that ridiculous way. He has a very strong friendship
for me. Poor Mr. Cattley! I am very glad he is going: and yet if I were
to ask him to do such a thing----’
‘Of course he would do it. He has always done everything you told him.’
‘You always go so much too far in everything, you boys. I am sure he
would try to do it, but it would be very hard upon him. Percy, don’t you
think you might get up your courage for another time?’
‘It isn’t the courage,’ he said. And then after a moment:--‘After all,
what’s the use? He’s not going to stay here all his life, and nothing
can happen in a fortnight or so. Can’t you let it swing?’
‘Nothing can happen in a fortnight or so! Why, it is just the time in
which everything may happen. If he were settled here it would not be
half so dangerous, there would seem no hurry then: whereas in a
fortnight! we may have Elly engaged to him before we know where we are.’
‘Come now, Aunt Mary. Poor Jack is nobody: that is not his fault: but
he’s an honourable fellow, nobody can say anything against his honour.
He couldn’t behave in an ungentlemanly way.’
‘What has that to do with it?’ said Mrs. Egerton, exasperated.
‘Honourable! why, in ten years, with a good profession and getting on so
well, he may be a great match.’
‘Then why, in the name of heaven---- Oh, I’m speaking from your point of
view. To me it would be horrid, anyhow--that fellow!--but if you think
so----’
‘I don’t want Elly to wait ten years,’ said Mrs. Egerton. ‘The longer a
girl like Elly waits, the more fastidious she grows. If she does not
marry till thirty, she will probably never marry at all.’
‘She will probably not have the chance,’ Percy remarked.
‘That is all you know. You are all brutal on that question, you men. As
if to have a chance was all that was necessary, and every woman was on
the watch to obtain such an honour and glory.’ Having freed her mind in
this way, Mrs. Egerton resumed:--‘What is the sister like? Is she
common? Is she of the hospital-nurse or of the shop-girl type? Does he
seem fond of her? Her appearance might do Elly good, perhaps.’
‘Shop-girl!’ said Percy to himself. He grew pale with a sort of holy
horror. ‘You women are dreadful,’ he said. ‘Talk of being brutal! I
don’t know any angels myself, but I should think she would be more like
that type.’
‘Indeed!’ Mrs. Egerton said, and stopped and stared at him, a proceeding
of which Percy showed his dislike by turning, if not his back, which
would have been uncivil, at least the side of his clerical coat, and
shaven cheek, to his relation’s eye. This made the gaze of scrutiny
which she directed towards him innocuous, but raised her suspicions all
the more. ‘Dear me,’ she said, ‘this is a sudden enthusiasm. I was not
at all prepared for it. The mother was a striking-looking woman. What do
you take for the angelic type, Percy, if I may ask?’
‘The type of Miss Sandford,’ said Percy: ‘I don’t mean anything silly.’
He spoke with an impatience which was not unhabitual, for Percy was one
of those who think it the fault of the other people when he is not
immediately understood. ‘You had better go and see her for
yourself--indeed, good manners demand that you should do so, and show
yourself civil, you and Elly too.’
Mrs. Egerton looked at him for a moment, not sure whether she ought to
be angry: but policy and good humour won the day, and she laughed.
‘You lay down my duty for me very distinctly,’ she said. ‘You forget
that my manners were formed before you were born. But I shall certainly
go and see Miss Sandford--brought up among sick people and in hospital
duties as she has been, a little change must be important for her.’
Women perhaps have the gift of showing a muffled claw like this better
than men. Percy was exasperated to have the stranger spoken of as a
hospital nurse, but he had not an opening to say a word.
‘Poor thing,’ Mrs. Egerton added, ‘it must be a trying life. I daresay
the mere sight of people who have nothing the matter with them will do
her good. Certainly I shall go. Oh, Mr. Cattley,’ said she, as the
curate opened the door, ‘you have just come in time. I gave Percy a
commission last night which he has not been able to carry out. Perhaps I
might ask you----’
‘You know,’ said Mr. Cattley, ‘that what you wish is a law to me.’
‘Not that,’ she said, with a faint, rising colour, ‘but this is a very
delicate matter, out of the ordinary. It is to prevent further
unhappiness: it is for the real good of two young creatures, who are
almost as dear to you, I believe, as they are to me.’
‘What is it?’ he said. Mr. Cattley was a little grey by nature, with no
perceptible colour, but he warmed slightly with the interest of this
mysterious office which was about to be conferred upon him.
‘It is about John and Elly,’ Mrs. Egerton said.
‘What,’ cried the curate, ‘have they----?’ with a gleam of animation,
which faded, however, when he saw that his oracle shook her head; but it
was very evident which way Mr. Cattley’s sympathies went.
‘I don’t know if I can trust you, after all. Mr. Cattley, you know
Jack--though he is a charming boy, and was almost like one of ourselves
as long as he was living here--still he is not in the same position, is
he? Not perhaps quite so well educated and all that--not--a gentleman,
as people say.’
‘Yes, I am sure he is a gentleman,’ said Mr. Cattley, quietly.
‘In heart and in manners, oh, yes. He is very nice; he is full of good
impulses, and his manners, for his position, are very nice. But, Mr.
Cattley, there is something more--really, you must acknowledge
something more is necessary.’
‘For what?’ he said.
At this Mrs. Egerton’s middle-aged countenance was touched with a little
colour, for perhaps in consequence of the curate’s boundless admiration
for her, she stood a little in awe of him, and doubtless avoided in his
presence the expression of all sentiments that might seem to him
unworthy. She hesitated for a moment.
‘Mr. Cattley,’ she said. ‘I must first explain. These two are at a
dangerous age to be such great friends. With boy and girl that sort of
sentiment is so apt to glide into--a warmer feeling.’
‘Yes, I know; and not only with boy and girl.’
‘Well, some people condemn all friendship between men and women on that
account; but of course at their age it is doubly---- Now, Mr. Cattley,
you understand. With the greatest regard for John Sandford, one would
not, you know, wish that Elly---- Her father would never give his
consent.’
‘I see,’ said the curate. ‘It would not be a very fine match for her,
indeed. I should prefer a young duke.’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I should not prefer a young duke: but I should
prefer some one a little above, to some one a little below. Don’t you
see? I think in the present circumstances you must feel there is
something reasonable in that.’
‘Quite reasonable,’ said Mr. Cattley. ‘I should like Elly to be rich and
great--happy, too.’
‘Yes, yes; there is no question of her happiness. If that were involved,
of course I should not say another word. But at present we have not to
take that into consideration. The only danger is that both of them might
get to think--they are full of poetry and stories, Elly as full as
possible. They might get to think they were made for each other, without
any sufficient cause even in themselves, and everything against
it--everything! in the circumstances.’
‘I see,’ Mr. Cattley said again. ‘But what do you suppose I can do?’
‘If you would but speak to Jack! There is no one he respects so much.
Warn him that it is not wise for him to see so much of Elly, that their
old familiarity was only possible when they were children, that for him
to call her---- as he does--I am sure you would know exactly what to
say. Percy was to have done it last night: but he was entirely routed by
the appearance of Jack’s sister whom he took for----’ Mrs. Egerton
laughed, but continued with mingled prudence and temerity, for Percy
looked daggers at her, ‘who seems to have been something in the guardian
angel way.’
Mr. Cattley did not take any notice of this, but he said, meditatively,
‘It will be a curious thing for me to do. And yet perhaps I am the most
natural agent. But I don’t know what I shall say to him. It may be--have
you considered that?--putting an idea into his head which was not
there.’
‘Oh, I fear the idea is in his head,’ said Mrs. Egerton. ‘_That_ idea
never fails to get into their heads. If it was an arrangement everybody
approved, and that we were moving heaven and earth to bring about, then
indeed--but the moment it becomes undesirable, a trouble, an annoyance!
I am sure when you see him, that you will easily find what it is best
to say. And I shall be so grateful,’ she cried, giving him an
affectionate glance, ‘for, Mr. Cattley, I know you will be very
considerate; you will say nothing to wound his feelings.’
‘Nothing more than is necessary. You don’t suppose things like this can
be said without hurting the feelings,’ said the curate. ‘Poor boy,’ he
added, after a moment, ‘I would do a great deal to get him his wishes.
It seems hard that I should be the one to say he’s not to have them.’
‘But you approve? You see there is nothing else to be done: you agree
with me that it would be impossible to let it go on? I am sure, whoever
else may misconceive my meaning, you understand,’ Mrs. Egerton said,
with a sudden little pressure of her hand upon his arm.
He looked at her with a kind of appeal in his eyes.
‘I think I understand,’ he said, ‘and I approve, too, in a kind of way.
But you will be kind? You will not push it too far?’
‘I hope I am not unkind,’ Mrs. Egerton said.
Thus it was that Mr. Cattley went, in the afternoon of the day
following Susie’s arrival, to the old house of the Sandfords. He went
somewhat against the grain; but yet there was sufficient justice in the
commission given him. He thought with a little sigh how entirely natural
and appropriate it would be that John should love Elly, and Elly John.
If it was so, they would be delivered at once, in the happiness and
harmony of nature, from all the constraints which distracted life. He
himself had loved, if he had ever ventured to think so, amiss. He had
given his affections to a woman entirely out of his sphere, of a
different development, almost of a different generation. Any idea of
marrying her, of a house made bright by her love, had never been
possible. Many moments of a happiness very sweet, though always subdued,
he had no doubt possessed. She had been if impossible as a wife, yet his
dearest friend, his frequent companion, and his years had passed very
sweetly by her side. But if it had chanced to him in his youth, like
John, to love somebody of his own age, somebody within his reach! If
_she_ had been young, like Elly, and fancy-free when he was as John! He
sighed to think how many embarrassments, how many self-denials those two
young creatures would escape in the love which had no complications in
it. And then he recollected, with a shock, that he was going to put a
stop to this love, that he was going as the accepted messenger of family
pride and importance, of the difference between the rector’s daughter
and an obscure young man whose pedigree would not bear examination. Mr.
Cattley shook his head a little and rubbed his eyes; was it possible
that this was the errand upon which he was going? He then began to think
of the matter from the other point of view. It was indeed very natural
that it should be thought undesirable for Elly, who might, as people
say, marry anybody, to have her affections surprised before she knew
anything of the world, or had seen anyone, by a young man of obscure
origin and uncertain prospects. They were quite justified in thinking
so, quite right, indeed, and in trying to save her from a connection
which was almost too natural, into which she might be drawn by the mere
force of circumstances, by the habit of liking John, and the
impossibility of understanding the difference between liking and love.
Yes, he said to himself, Elly must be saved. She must not be drawn
inadvertently into a union which was too natural, which seemed
inevitable, the expedient of a story. No, no! Elly, and John, too, must
be saved from drifting into that.
He carried on this controversy, which was not really a controversy, for
his heart first took one side and then the other, and he was the
partisan of both, as he went down the street, mechanically returning all
the salutations made to him. He said to himself that it was a strange
world, that wherever one turned there was trouble, things not going
right in the battle of life, all for want of being put in the right way
at the beginning. His sense of all these contradictions was possibly
deepened by the consciousness which never left him that he was going
away. He was to leave all these people whom he knew, and whose troubles
he understood, and to leave the way of life to which he had become
accustomed, and the sweetness of the friendship which was his, that
sweetness in his life which replaced the wife and children of other men.
Mr. Cattley’s heart rebelled a little in spite of himself. Why had he
to go away? Not by his own wish entirely. He would have gone on for ever
if they would let him, and nobody would have been the worse. He was
going away to better himself, so they all said, because at his age it
was right he should be independent and have a living of his own and
settle down.
Settle down! How was he ever to settle down? He thought drearily of the
new rectory in which he had already spent a dreary month or two. And now
he had come back to initiate Percy into his duties, and to take leave of
all he was most used to, and cared for most. John! That he should have
to interfere with Jack,--to whom everything was possible,--he, in his
middle-aged desolation! What should he himself do? The worst thing would
be if he were ever forced by stress of circumstances to marry some
innocent woman who might be put in his way, and do her grievous wrong,
marrying for convenience because it would not be possible for him to
live alone. It was John who ought to interfere, who should take his old
tutor by the shoulders and say to him-- What do you mean by it? What
right have you to yield to external pressure in this way and tear
yourself from all you care for in life? If the tables were turned on
him, either by John or Elly, Mr. Cattley felt it would be only just: but
nevertheless, holding to his _consigne_ to the last moment, he went
on--to do her bidding dutifully, and her business, and make an end of
any dream that might be stealing into John’s imagination. Poor John!
Mr. Cattley walked into the parlour which he knew so well, and where he
could not help feeling the old people must be sitting, waiting to
upbraid him, for conspiring--he who had always professed to be so proud
of the boy--against Jack’s happiness. He did not pay any attention to
what the maid said in answer to his inquiry for Mr. Sandford, but went
in straight, as he had been accustomed to do, without announcement or
preliminary. And then there occurred to Mr. Cattley something of the
same miraculous effect which on the evening before had paralysed Percy.
There rose up as he entered, meeting him with the honest, modest look of
a pair of eyes sincere and sweet, and that tranquil air of home-dwelling
and content which makes an ordinary room into a sort of palace of the
soul--Susie, not John. He looked at her in great surprise: for, though
he knew that John’s sister had come, he had not realised nor thought of
her, and for the first moment did not even comprehend that this was she.
‘My brother is out,’ said Susie. ‘If you will sit down, I am sure he
will not be long. He has gone up to the rectory, I think, with some
books.’
‘To the rectory?’ said Mr. Cattley, with a prevision, which--for the
reason that it agreed with all his wishes, yet went against all his
instructions--made his heart beat--‘I must have met him on the way had
he gone there.’
‘I am sure he has gone there,’ said Susie, ‘for he took some books Miss
Spencer had asked for. He may have gone round some other way.’
‘Yes, he may have gone round,’ said Mr. Cattley, his face growing long,
yet his heart stirring with a sharp, acute sympathy which was almost
painful. And then he said, ‘You must pardon me, Miss Sandford, for I am
sure I am speaking to Jack’s sister. I should like to wait for him if
you will let me stay.’
‘Surely,’ she said, with that smile in her eyes which was always there,
resuming her seat: and the curate sat down by her, with a pleasure in
this novelty, in the old associations turned into new ones, in the
unknown gentle friend who did not know anything about his perplexities
or his position, but met him on fresh ground with her pleasant welcoming
eyes and tranquillising presence. He would wait for Jack: and probably
some new light as to how to treat this matter might spring up by the
way.