THE FATHER AND CHILDREN.
Mr. Cattley had quietly taken possession of Susie and her arrangements
from the moment of the agitating conversation which followed John’s
letter to Elly. It could scarcely be said that he had intended to make a
declaration of love to her--though for some time it had been apparent to
him that this was the solution of all the difficulties of that
disruption in his life which he had not himself done anything to bring
about, yet which was natural and necessary, and a change which he could
neither refuse nor draw back from when it came. The sudden rending
asunder of all the bonds that had fashioned his existence for years had
been very painful to the curate. To keep them up unnaturally, in
defiance of separation and distance, was all but impossible, and yet to
cut himself finally adrift was an operation which he knew not how to
perform. Susie had given him unconsciously the key to all these
difficulties. Had he remained at Edgeley, leading a somewhat pensive and
unfulfilled, yet happy life, his devotion to Mrs. Egerton would have
been in all likelihood enough for his subdued and moderate spirit. It
was as much out of the question that she should marry him as that the
sky and the fields should effect a union, or any other parallel
unconjoinable things: but there was little occasion for any attempt at
such an alliance, considering that the terms on which they stood, of
tenderest and most delicate friendship, were enough for all
requirements. It is delightful to keep up such a tie when circumstances
permit, and no more strenuous sentiment breaks in--but to break it is a
thing full of embarrassment and difficulty. Scarcely any woman is so
unnaturally amiable as to behold the defection of her servant and knight
without a certain annoyance; it is difficult altogether to forgive that
self-emancipation and disenthralment; and on the other hand the very
delicacy and romantic sentiment in the mind of the man which makes such
relations possible fills him with trouble and awkwardness when the
moment comes at which more reasonable and natural ties take the place of
the Platonic bond.
Mr. Cattley had felt the crisis deeply; he had not known how to detach
himself, or what to do with his life when the disruption should have
been made. Susie’s sudden appearance had been an inspiration and a
deliverance to him. He had felt in her the solution of all his doubts.
And now the sudden trouble which had come upon her, and which in his
interest and long affection for John it was so natural he should share,
came in like what he would himself have called ‘a special providence,’
to make his way more easy. That he should take her, so to speak, into
his own hands, guide her, take care of her, aid her in everything that
could be done for the family at such a crisis, was natural, most natural
to a man of his character, most convenient in a general crisis of
affairs. That he should step into the breach, that he should defend and
help all who were likely to suffer, that he should manage matters for
any distressed family, and specially help John, and help everybody, was
what all the world expected from Mr. Cattley. It was his natural office.
So that not only Susie but Susie’s troubles came with the most perfect
appropriateness into his life, and afforded him the opportunity of
withdrawing and emancipating himself on the one hand and securing his
own happiness on the other, as nothing else could have done.
This is not to say that the communication Susie had made to him about
her father had been received by the curate with indifference. It had, on
the contrary, given him a great shock. A convict! That he should connect
himself with such a person--he, a clergyman--a man placed in a position
where all his connections and relationships were exposed to
scrutiny--was a thought which gave him a momentary sensation,
indescribable, of giddiness and faintness and heart-sickness; but the
result of this shock was an unusual one. It made him instantly commit
himself--identify himself with the sufferer; take her up, so to speak,
upon his shoulders and prepare to carry her through life, and save her
from all effects of this irremediable misfortune. This was not the
effect it would have had on ordinary men; but it was so with Mr.
Cattley. The first thing to be done seemed to snatch up Susie, not to
let it hurt her--not even to let her feel for a moment that it could
hurt her. A convict! He remembered the story faintly when he heard the
name, how it had a certain interest in it, in consequence of the
character of the man, whom everybody liked, although the forger had
ruined his family, and plunged all belonging to him into misery. And to
think now, after so many years, that he himself was to be one of the
people plunged into trouble by this criminal of a past time! The shock
went through his nerves and up to his head like a sudden jar to his
whole being. But there was perhaps something in his professional habit
of finding a remedy for the troubles brought under his eye, the quick
impulse of doing something, which becomes a second nature with the
physicians of the spirit as well as with those of the body, which helped
him now. And then it afforded him the most extraordinary and easy
opening out of a difficult conjunction of affairs; that had to be taken
into account--as well as the rest.
The result was that Mr. Cattley took Susie to London to her mother, and
at once, without anything--or at least very little more--said, took his
place as a member of the family, threatened with great shame and
exposure through the return of the disgraced father, whom some of them
had hoped never to see again, and some had no knowledge of. Nobody but a
clergyman could have done this so easily, and even Mrs. Sandford, with
all her pride and determination to share the secret with no one, could
not refuse the aid of a cool head and sympathetic mind in the emergency
in which she found herself placed. She was too much pre-occupied by her
great distress to have much leisure of mind to consider this sudden new
arrival critically as Susie’s suitor. At an easier moment that question
would no doubt have been discussed in all its bearings--whether he was
not too old for Susie; whether he was not very plain, very quiet;
whether they had known each other long enough; whether they suited each
other: all these matters would have afforded opportunity of discussion
and question. But in the present dreadful emergency there was no time
for any such argument.
‘Susie has accepted me for her husband,’ Mr. Cattley said (which,
indeed, Susie had scarcely done save tacitly), ‘what can I do to help
you?’ There seemed nothing strange in it. It was his profession to have
secrets confided to him, to help all sorts of people. Even Mrs. Sandford
could not resist his quiet certainty that their affairs were his, and
that he could be of use. And he had all the strength and freshness of a
new agent, impartial, having full command of his judgment. He had none
of John’s stern and angry Quixotism and determination not to lose hold
again of the father who was a disgrace to him, that fiercest development
of duty--neither did he share the horror and loathing of the wife for
the man who had betrayed and disgraced her. He was of Mrs. Sandford’s
mind that the culprit should be kept apart, that no attempt should be
made to reinstate him in the family; and he was of John’s mind that May
could not be abandoned. He agreed and disagreed with both, and he was
sorry for all--at once for the family driven to horror and dismay by
such a sudden apparition, and for the unfortunate criminal himself, thus
cut off from all the ties of nature.
Susie took no independent action in the matter. She left it now to him,
as she had left it all her life to her mother, feeling such questions
beyond her, she who was so ready and so full of active service in the
practical ways of life. She left the decision to those who were better
able to make it, but with an altogether new and delightful confidence
such as she had never known before; for Mr. Cattley was far more
merciful than anyone who in Susie’s experience had ever touched this
painful matter. Mrs. Sandford had desired nothing so much as never to
hear the name of the husband through whom she had suffered so many
humiliations and miseries again; but Mr. Cattley would not permit the
natural right to be shaken off, or the claims of blood abandoned. Susie
turned to him with a gratitude which was beyond words in her mild eyes.
Her mother’s panic and loathing were cruel, but he was ever kind and
just. She looked at him with that sense that he was the best of created
beings, which it is so expedient for a wife to possess. Even love does
not always carry this confidence with it, but Susie was one of the women
who will always, to the last verge of possibility, give that adoration
and submission to the man upon whom their affections rest. And happily
she had found one by whom, as far as that is possible to humanity, they
were fully deserved.
They set out together in the morning sunshine, after many arguments and
consultations with Mrs. Sandford, to seek John in his lodgings and
settle if possible upon some common course of action. But, though so
many painful questions were involved, these two people were able to
dismiss them as they walked along together. They seemed to step into a
land of gentle happiness the moment they were alone with each other,
though in the midst of the crowded streets. They went across the bridge
making momentary involuntary pauses to look at the traffic on the river,
forgetting that they ought not to have had any attention to spare for
such outside matters. Though Susie was entirely town-bred, they looked
what they were henceforward to be--a country pair, a rural couple come
up from their vicarage to see the world. There ought not to have been so
much ease, so much sweetness in the morning to May the convict’s
daughter: and yet she could not help it, there it was. And to Mr.
Cattley, who had always been accustomed to a somewhat secondary place,
the sensation of being supreme was strangely delightful. A woman who can
give that unquestioning admiration, that boundless trust, is always
sweet. It is not every woman that can do it, however godlike may be the
man: and the curate did not believe that he was godlike. But yet it was
very delightful that she should think so. It was a surprise to him to
receive this tender homage; but it was very sweet.
They had reached the quiet street in which John’s rooms were, when Susie
was suddenly roused out of this heavenly state by the sight of some one
coming hastily out of her brother’s door. They were still at a
sufficient distance to see that he came out half-running, as if pursued,
and that he looked round him with alarm as he came towards them,
stumbling a little with uncertain steps. Something perhaps it was in
this somewhat wavering movement which roused old recollections in her
mind--and her father, but for that temporary lapse into personal
blessedness, had been very much in the foreground of her imagination.
She let go Mr. Cattley’s arm with a shock of sudden awakening, with a
cry of ‘Papa!’ She recognised him in a moment. He was in reality very
little changed, far less changed than she was, the austerity of his
prison life having preserved the freshness of early years in his face.
‘Papa,’ she said, and stopped and reddened with sudden emotion, ashamed
to look at him who she thought must stand abashed before her, and for
the first time fully apprehending this tragedy, which no one could
smooth away.
‘Eh!’ he cried, and gave her a hurried look. ‘I am in a great hurry. I
can’t speak to you now:’ then he stopped reluctantly, for the first time
realising what she had said. No, it was not shame; he was not afraid of
meeting her eye: but a look of curiosity and interest came into his
face. ‘What’s that you are calling me? Do you know me? Who are you? Are
you----? is this Susie?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, papa, it is Susie. Don’t go away. We were coming to look for
you, to ask--don’t go away from us. You are not at all changed,’ she
said, putting out her hands to detain him, ‘you are just the same. Papa,
oh, where are you going? Don’t go away.’
‘You think so? Not changed! I might be--for you are changed, Susie, and
so is the world; everything’s changed. Don’t stop me, I must go; your
brother, if that is your brother--and if you are Susie----’
‘Have you seen John, papa?’
‘John,’ he repeated, with a half smile; and, though he had been in such
haste, he stopped now at once with every appearance of leisure. ‘He may
be John, but he’s not Johnnie, my little boy. He’s like a policeman,’ he
went on, in a tone of whimsical complaint, rubbing his arm where John
had grasped him; ‘he clutches in the same way. My little chap would
never have behaved like that. And so you’re Susie? I see some likeness
now. You were your mother’s pet, and the boy was mine. Ah! well, it
comes to the same thing in the end. You’re both of you ashamed of me
now.’
‘Oh, papa,’ cried Susie, with tears, ‘don’t say so; don’t think so!
John----’
‘Yes, I know: he wants to get hold of me, to keep me in some family
dungeon where I can’t shame him. I know that’s what he wants. No, child,
I’m going away. Do I want to disgrace you? I’ll go, and you shall never
hear of me more.’
‘Papa,’ cried soft-voiced Susie, ‘come back and let us talk all together
like one family. Come back to poor John’s lodgings. We are all one
family, after all. We are all friends. Oh, come back, come back, papa!’
‘He has got ladies there--the girl he is going to marry. Never, never!
I’m not going to have anything to do with him. I’m glad to have seen
you, Susie. God bless you, you’ve got a sweet face. You’re like a sister
of mine that died young. If you ever see your mother--I suppose you see
your mother sometimes?--you can tell her---- Well, perhaps I gave her
reason to hate me and give up my name. You can tell her she’ll never be
troubled anymore with me.’
‘Oh, papa!’ Susie drew a long breath and held him firmly by the arm.
‘Here is John. You must speak to John.’
John had come hurriedly up to the other side, having followed from his
house, and now put his hand also upon his father’s arm.
‘I can’t let you out of my sight,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘We must
understand everything, we must settle everything now.’
‘Oh, listen to him, papa: it’s not his fault; let us consult together;
we are all one family. Surely, surely we are all friends,’ Susie cried.
May stood between his children with a sullenness unusual to it coming
over his face. He shook off John’s hold pettishly.
‘I told you he clutched like a policeman,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind you,
Susie, you’re natural. If I had you with me, I might perhaps---- But
it’s no use thinking of that. You can tell your mother that whatever
happens she shall never be troubled with me.’
‘Father,’ said John, with a shudder at the word, ‘we none of us want to
neglect our duties. Now that you are here, you can’t disappear again.
We belong to each other whether we wish it or not. You have a claim upon
us, and we--we have a claim upon you. Come back. Susie, get him to come
back.’
A look of panic came upon May’s face. He shook them off from either
hand.
‘Don’t let us have a row in the street,’ he cried. ‘You’ll bring all the
policemen about. And when a man has once been in trouble they always
think it’s his fault. Let me go.’
‘Not without telling us where to find you, at least,’ said John.
‘Oh, papa, papa!’ said Susie. ‘Don’t go, don’t go.’
‘We’ll have all the policemen in the place about,’ May said, looking
round him with alarm.
Mr. Cattley had stood by all the time saying nothing. He came forward
now, and drew John aside.
‘Jack, will you leave it in my hands?’ he said. ‘I know everything, more
perhaps than you do. And you’re not in a condition to judge calmly. You
know you can trust me.’
‘And who may this be now?’ said May, in a pettish and offended tone. He
turned to the new speaker with a rapid change of front: but changed
again as soon as he perceived what the new speaker was. He had known a
great many chaplains in his time, and had never found them unmanageable.
‘I see you’re a clergyman,’ he said, in his usual mild tones: ‘and you
have a good countenance,’ he added, approvingly. ‘There’s some little
questions to settle between me and--my family. I don’t mind talking of
our affairs with such a--with such a--respectable person. So long as no
attempt is made on my personal freedom.’ He paused a little, and then
laughed with his usual perception of the ludicrous. ‘I’m very choice
over that,’ he said, ‘it’s been too much tampered with already.’ He
looked from one to another as he spoke, with a faint expectation of some
smile or response to his pleasantry: some sense of the humour of it in
Susie’s deprecating anxious face or the stern misery of John. The want
of that reply chilled him for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he
stepped out briskly from between his irresponsive children.
‘Lead on--as Montressor would say--I’ll follow with my bosom bare--or at
least with my heart open--which comes to the same thing, I suppose,’ he
said.
This transaction took place so rapidly that John, in his confused state,
and even Susie, scarcely understood what was taking place till they
found themselves alone, watching the two other figures going quickly and
quietly along the street. To Susie it seemed as if in a moment
everything had come right. Mr. Cattley carried off her anxieties with
him, to be solved in what was sure to be the best way. She came close to
John’s side and put her arm within his, supporting him with her
confidence and certainty that all would now go well, supporting him even
physically with the soft backing-up which he wanted so much. They stood
together silent, watching the other two disappear along the street. How
it was that John gave in so easily, and let the matter be taken out of
his hands, no one ever knew; the secret was that he was worn out with
misery and unrest. Body and soul had become incapable of further
exertion, even of further suffering. The only solution possible to his
strained nerves and strength was this--that some one else should do it
for him. For he was incapable of anything more.