CHAPTER XV.
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.