JOHN’S LETTER.
The letter which had been received that morning, and had thrown the
rectory into the deepest dismay ran thus:
‘DEAREST ELLY,
‘After all that we have said and hoped, I am obliged to come to a
pause. What I have to tell you had better be said in a very few
words. I have always believed that my father was dead, that he died
when I was a child. I have suddenly found that he is alive. His
existence makes an end at once of all the hopes that were as my
life. I must give you up, first of all, because you are more
precious than everything else. Whatever may happen to me; whatever
I do; whether I succeed, as is very little likely, or fail, which
is almost sure now, I never can have any standing-ground on which
to claim you. I must give you up. This revolution in my life has
been very sudden, and I dare not delay telling you of it--for
nothing can ever bridge over the chasm thus made. I will explain
why this is, if you wish it, or if anyone wishes it: but I would
rather not do it, for it is very, very painful. All is pain and
misery--I think there is nothing else left in the world. Elly, I
daren’t say a word to you to rouse your pity. I ought not to try to
make you sorry for me. I ought to do nothing more than say God
bless you. I never was worthy to stand beside you, to entertain
such a wild dream as that you might be mine. I can never forget,
but I hope that you may forget, all except our childhood, which
cannot harm.
‘J. M. S.’
‘Now what,’ said Elly, facing them both defiantly, ‘what does that
mean?’
Susie had read it too, at last, though at first she had refused to read
it. Did she not know in a moment what it meant? For her there could be
no doubt. Since she had grown a woman; since she had learned how things
go in this world, and how difficult it is to conceal anything, there had
always been a dread in Susie’s mind of what would happen when John found
out. This had only come over her by moments, but now, in the shock of
the discovery, she believed that she had always thought so, and always
trembled for this contingency. She said to herself now that she had
always known it would happen, which was going further still--always
known--always dreaded--and now it had come. She did not need to read the
letter, but she had done so at last, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear.
She gave it back to Elly without a word. Of course she had known what it
must be. Of course, from the first moment, she had known.
‘Susie,’ Elly said again, ‘tell me, what does it mean?’
‘You know him well enough,’ Susie said, falteringly; ‘you know he would
not say what was not true.’
‘But if this is true,’ said Elly, ‘then he has said before what was not
true. What can it be to me that his father is living? I do not
mind--his father is nothing to me. I don’t want to hurt you, Susie, but
if his father swept the streets, if he--oh, I don’t want to hurt you!’
‘You don’t hurt me,’ said Susie, with the smile of a martyr. ‘Oh, Miss
Spencer, let us leave it alone. You see what he says. He will explain,
if you insist, but he would rather not explain. Don’t you trust him
enough for that?’
‘Trust him!’ said Elly. ‘I trust him so much that, if he sent me word to
go to him and marry him to-morrow, I would do it. I trust him so that I
don’t believe it, oh, not a word,’ the girl cried. And then she threw
herself upon Susie, clasping her wrists as she tried, trembling, to
resume her work. ‘Oh, tell me, what does he mean--what does he mean?
What can his father be to me?’
‘Elly,’ said Mr. Cattley, ‘don’t you see how hard you are upon her? Take
what Jack says, or let him explain for himself. I will go to him and get
his explanation, if you wish--but why torture _her_?’
Elly shot a vivid glance from the curate to Susie, who sat with her head
bent over her work, her needle stumbling wildly in her trembling hands.
‘You think a great deal of sparing her, Mr. Cattley. Aunt Mary says----’
Elly was in so great distress, so excited, so crossed and thwarted, so
uncertain and unhappy, that to wound some one else was almost a relief
to her. But she stopped short before she shot her dart.
‘I am sure she says nothing that is unkind,’ said the curate, firmly;
but his very firmness betrayed the sense of a doubt. Mrs. Egerton had
been his idol all this time, and was he going to desert her? Could she
by any possibility think that he was deserting her? His own mind was too
much confused and troubled on his own account to be clear.
Susie kept on working as if for life and death, not meeting the girl’s
look, tacitly resisting the clasp of her hands, grateful when Mr.
Cattley distracted Elly’s attention and relieved herself from that
urgent appeal, yet scarcely conscious whence the relief came or what
they were saying to each other to make that pause. Her needle flew along
wildly all the time, piercing her fingers more often than the two edges
which she was sewing together: and in her mind such a tumult and
conflict, half physical from the flutter of her heart beating in her
ears, making a whirr of sound through which the voices came vaguely,
carrying no meaning. Elly’s appeal to her, though so urgent, was but
secondary. The thing that had happened, and all the questions involved
in it: how he had come to light again, that poor father whom Susie had
been brought up to fear, yet whom she could not help loving in a way;
how John had found out the family tragedy; what it would be to her
mother to be brought face to face with it again, and to know that _he_
knew it, whom it had been the object of her life to keep in ignorance.
To think that all this had happened, and nobody had told her; that she
had not known a word of it till now, when that intimation was
accompanied by this impassioned appeal for explanation. Explanation! how
could Susie explain? The very suggestion that another mode of treatment
was possible from that which her mother had adopted, and that, instead
of concealing it at any risk, John was setting it up between him and
those he loved most, identifying himself with it, even offering
explanation if necessary, was appalling to Susie.
It was only when she had a moment of silence to consider, that it all
came upon her. She did not know what they were saying, or desire to
hear. She felt by instinct that some other subject had been momentarily
introduced, and was grateful for the moment’s relief to think. But how
could she think in the shock of this unexpected revelation, and with all
that noise and singing in her ears? She came to herself a little when
the voices ceased, and she became aware that they were looking at her,
and wondering why she did not say anything--which was giving up her own
cause as much as if she confirmed the truth. She looked up with eyes
that were dim and dazed, but tried to smile.
‘I cannot tell you what John means,’ she said; ‘how could I, when I
don’t know what he means? He has--very high notions: and he
thinks--nothing good enough for you. We have no--pretensions--as a
family.’
Susie tried very hard to smile and look as if John were only very
scrupulous, humble-minded, feeling himself not Elly’s equal in point of
birth.
‘We’ve gone over all that,’ cried Elly, with an impatient wave of her
hand. ‘And what does it matter--to anybody, now-a-days? It is all
exploded; it is all antiquated. Nobody thinks of such a thing now. And
Jack knows well enough. Besides, it is ridiculous,’ cried the girl; ‘he
is--well, if you must have it, he is conceited, he is proud of himself,
he is no more humble about it than if he were a king. Do you think I’m a
fool not to know his faults? I’ve known them all my life. I like his
faults!’ Elly said.
And then there was again a pause. Nobody spoke. It became very apparent
to both these anxious questioners--to Elly, when the fumes of her own
eager speech died away, and to Mr. Cattley, who was calmer--that Susie
did not wish to make any reply, that she knew something of which this
was the natural consequence, something which she was determined not to
tell, something which was serious enough to justify John’s letter, which
showed that it was no fantastic notion on his part, but a reality.
Susie herself was dimly aware, even though she had her eyes on her work
as before, that they were looking at her with keen examination, and also
in her mind that they were coming to this inevitable conclusion: but
what could she do?
‘Every family,’ she said, faltering, ‘has its little secrets, or at
least something it keeps to itself. I don’t know that there is more with
us than with other people----’ But her voice would not keep steady.
‘The only thing,’ she went on, sharply, feeling a resource in a little
anger, ‘is that people generally--keep these things to themselves;--but
John, it seems that John----’ And here she came to a dead stop and said
no more.
Elly had grown graver and graver while Susie spoke. Her excitement and
impatience to know, fell still, as a lively breeze will sometimes do in
a moment. Her eyes, which Susie could not meet, seemed to read the very
outline of the drooping figure, the bent head, the nervous stumbling
hands so busy with work which they were incapable of doing. Elly’s face
settled into something very serious. She flung her head back with the
air of one taking a definite resolution.
‘In that case,’ she said, lingering a little over the words in case they
might call forth an answer, ‘in that case, I think I had better go.’
Mr. Cattley, much perplexed, went with her to the door. He went up the
street with her, his face very grave too, almost solemn.
‘Don’t do anything rash, Elly,’ he said. ‘We know Jack. I--I can’t think
he is to blame.’
‘To blame!’ Elly said, with her head high, as if the suggestion were an
insult. Then she added, after a moment, ‘Yes, he’s to blame, as
everybody is that makes a mystery. Whatever it is, he might have known
that he could trust me; that is the only way in which he can be to
blame.’
Susie had thrown away her work in the ease of being alone. It was an
ease to her, and the only solace possible. She put her arms on the table
and her face upon them, and found the relief which women get in tears.
It is but a poor relief; yet it gives a sort of refreshment. Her burning
and scorched eyelids were softened--and the sense of scrutiny removed,
and freedom to look and cry as she would, was good. But the thronging
thoughts that had been kept in check by that need of keeping a steady
front to the world, which is at once an appalling necessity and a
support to women, came now with a wilder rush and took possession
altogether of her being. How was it that he had appeared again, that
spectre whom she had feared since she was a child, yet for whom by
moments nature had cried out in her heart, Papa! She, like John, only
knew the child’s name for him, only remembered him as smiling and kind;
though she had learned, as John never had learned, that other aspect of
him which appeared through her mother’s eyes. Susie knew something,
embittered by the feeling of the woman who had gone through it all, of
the long and hopeless struggle that had filled all her own childhood,
and of which she had been vaguely conscious--the struggle between a
woman of severe virtue, and an uprightness almost rigid, and a man who
had no moral fibre, yet so many engaging qualities, so much good humour,
ease of mind, and power of adapting himself, that most people liked
him, though no one approved of him: the kind of father whom little
children adore, but whom his sons and daughters, as they grow up,
sometimes get to loathe in his incapacity for anything serious, for any
self-restraint or self-respect.
His wife had been the last woman in the world to strive with such a
nature, and perhaps the horror that had grown in her, and which she had
instilled unconsciously into Susie’s mind, was embittered by this
knowledge. Susie knew all the terrible story. How the woman had toiled
to keep him right, to convince him of the necessity of keeping right, to
persuade him that there was a difference between right and wrong: and
she knew that this always hopeless struggle had ended in the misery and
horror of the shame which her proud mother had to bear, yet would not
bear. All this came back to her as she lay with her head bowed upon her
arms in the abandonment of a misery which no stranger’s eye could spy
upon. And he had come back? and how was mother to bear it? And how had
John found it out? And why did he not hide in his own heart, as they
had done, this dreadful, miserable secret? She, a girl, had known it and
kept it a secret, even from her own thoughts, for fourteen years. Day
and night she had prayed for the unfortunate in prison, but never by
look or word betrayed the thing which had changed her life at twelve
years old, and sundered her from others of her age, more or less
completely ever since. It had separated her so completely that till now
Susie had never lived in entirely natural easy relations with other
girls, or with men of her own age. There had always been a great gulf
fixed between her and youthful friendship, between her and love. This
had been somehow bridged over here in this innocent place--and now! Oh,
how would mother bear it? Oh, how had John found it out?
She was in the midst of these confused yet too distinct and certain
trains of recollections and questions, when her solitude and ease of
self-abandonment were suddenly disturbed. She had not heard any step,
any token of another’s presence until she suddenly felt a light touch
upon her bowed head, and on her arm. Susie had given herself up too
completely to her own thoughts to be capable of considering the plight
in which she was. She started and looked up, her face all wet with her
weeping. She thought, she knew not what--that it was he perhaps, the
terror of the family, though she remembered nothing of him but kindness;
or John, it might be John, come to fetch her, to claim her help in these
renewed and overwhelming troubles. She started up in haste, raising to
the new-comer her tell-tale face. But it was not John, nor her father.
It was Mr. Cattley who was standing close by her with his hand touching
her arm. He had touched her head before, as she lay bowed down and
overwhelmed. His eyes were fixed upon her, waiting till she should look
at him, full of pity and tenderness.
‘Oh, Mr. Cattley!’ she cried, in the extremity of her surprise. He only
replied by patting softly the arm on which his hand lay.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is wrong. Tell me what is wrong. The secret,
if it is a secret, will be safe with me: but you cannot bear this
pressure; you must have some relief to your mind. Susie--I will call
you what Elly calls you for once--do you know what I was going to say to
you when she came?’
Susie raised her tear-stained face to his with a little surprise, and
said no.
‘So much the worse for my chances,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘You
might have divined, perhaps; yet why should you? I was going to tell you
a great many things I will not say now--to explain----’ Something like
a blush came upon his middle-aged countenance. ‘This is not the time for
that. I was going to ask you if you would marry me. There: that is all.
You see by this that I am ready to keep all your secrets, and help you
and serve you every way I can. It is only for this reason that I tell
you now. Will you take the good of me, Susie, without troubling yourself
with the thought of anything I may ask in return? There, now! Poor
child, you are worn out. Tell me what it is.’
‘Oh, Mr. Cattley,’ she cried, and could say no more.
‘Never mind Mr. Cattley: tell me what troubles you--that is the first
thing to think of. I guess as much as that it is something which poor
Jack has found out, but which you knew. I will go further, and tell you
what I guessed long ago--that this poor father has done something in
which there was trouble and shame.’
He had seated himself by her and taken her hand, holding it firmly
between his, and looking into her face. Susie felt, as many have felt
before her, that here all at once was a stranger to whom she could say
what she could not have said to the most familiar friend.
‘We hoped,’ she said, in a low voice--‘we thought--that nobody knew.’
‘Not John?’
‘Oh, John last of all; that was why he lived here; that was why we left
him, mother and I, and never came, and let him think that he was nothing
to us. He thought we had no love for him. He said to mother once that
she was not his mother. Ah!’ cried Susie, with a low cry of pain at that
recollection, ‘all that he might never know.’
‘And now he has found out: how do you think he can have found out?’
Susie shook her head.
‘The time was up; we knew that, and we were frightened, mother and I,
though there seemed no reason for fear, for we had left no sign to find
us by. Oh, I am afraid--I was always afraid--that to do that was unkind.
He was papa after all; he had a right to know, at least; but mother
could not forget all the dangers, all that she had gone through.’
‘I suppose, then,’ said Mr. Cattley, with a little pressure of her hand,
‘his name was not your name?’
Susie looked at him with something like terror. Her voice sank to the
lowest audible tone.
‘His name--our real name--is May.’
The curate had great command of himself, and was on his guard;
nevertheless she felt a thrill in the hand that held hers: Susie
sensitive, and prepared to suffer, as are the unfortunate, attempted to
draw hers away--but he held it fast; and when he spoke, which was not
for a minute, he said, with a movement of his head,
‘I think I remember now.’
The grave look, the assenting nod, the tone were all too much for her
excited nerves. She drew her hand out of his violently.
‘Then if you remember,’ cried Susie, ‘you know that it was disgrace no
one could shake off. You know it was shame to bow us to the dust; that
we never could hold up our heads, nor take our place with honest people,
nor be friends, nor love, nor marry, with such a weight upon us as that;
and now you know why John, poor John, oh, poor John!’
She hurried away from the table where the curate sat, regarding her with
that compassionate look, and threw herself into her grandfather’s chair
which stood dutifully by the side of the blank fireplace where Elly and
John had placed it. Her simple open countenance, which had hid that
secret beneath all the natural candour and truth of a character which
was serene as the day, was flushed with trouble and misery. Life seemed
to have revealed its sweeter mysteries to Susie only to show her how far
apart she must keep herself from honest people, as she said. And her
heart cried out--almost for the first time on its own account. Her
thoughts had chimed in with her mother’s miseries, but had not felt
them, save sympathetically; now her own time had come--and
John’s--John’s, who knew nothing, who must have discovered everything at
one stroke; he who was not humble, nor diffident, but so certain of
himself and all that he could do. What did it matter for anybody in
comparison with John?
Mr. Cattley did not disturb her for some time. He let that passion wear
itself out. Then he went and stood with his back to the fireplace, as
Englishmen use, though it was empty.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘that we understand, let us lay our heads together
and think what can be done.’
‘There is nothing to be done,’ said Susie. ‘Oh, Mr. Cattley, go away,
don’t pity me. I can’t bear it. There is only one thing for me to do,
and that is to go home to mother and John.’
‘I do not pity you,’ he said, ‘far from that. You have got the same work
as the angels have. Why should I pity you? It hurts them too, perhaps,
if they are as fair spirits as we think. But I am going with you, Susie:
for two, even when the second is not good for much, are better than
one.’
She clasped her hands and looked up at him with a gaze of entreaty.
‘Don’t,’ she cried, ‘don’t mix yourself up with us! Oh, go away to the
people who are fond of you, to the people who are your equals. What has
a clergyman to do with a man who has been in prison? Oh, never mind me,
Mr. Cattley. I am going to my own belongings. We must all put up with it
together the best way we can.’
‘Susie,’ he said, softly, ‘you are losing time. Don’t you know there is
an evening train?’