MRS. EGERTON and Elly were aware, but vaguely, that something was happening outside while they sat half frightened, bewildered, not knowing what to think, in John’s little parlour, dismayed by the sudden appearance and disappearance of the man who was his father, who had looked at them with that deprecating, good-humoured face, unlike a criminal, and who yet was—something that they shuddered to think of. They sat there silent, listening, waiting for John to come back; but they forgave him that he did not come back. Everything was so disorganised, so out of gear, that all the ordinary laws seemed suspended, and even Mrs. Egerton forgave, indeed scarcely thought of, this breach of all the rules of courtesy. Poor boy! whatever he had done, she would have forgiven him. She was sorry for him, sorry to the bottom of her heart. And fortunately they neither of them knew that Susie had been there, and had fled, afraid to meet them, not knowing what to say to them. Both pride and honour had kept them from looking out, from spying upon John, or watching what he was doing. They had sat, as it were, behind a veil, and only known vaguely and half by instinct that another scene in this painful little drama was going on outside. And then silence had come, the sound of the voices had died away, and they had still sat looking at each other with everything stopped and arrested round them, not knowing what to think. It was some time before they made up their minds to go, leaving the address of the house in which they were in the habit of staying when they came to town to see the pictures or do a little shopping such as ladies from the country love. But all these pleasant usages were forgotten in the excitement of this crisis.
‘Tell Mr. Sandford we shall expect him as soon as he can come to us.’
‘Oh, I will, ma’am, I will,’ cried Mrs. Short, ‘for he have need of his friends, that I’m sure of. He do have need of his true friends.’
Mrs. Egerton was too much subdued and anxious even to take advantage of this opportunity to inquire into John’s habits and mode of life, which for a lady accustomed to manage a parish was wonderful, and showed how serious the emergency was. And then they got into their cab and drove away.
These two ladies had come to London in a flush of tender impulse and kindness, even Mrs. Egerton, who was an impulsive woman, forgetting all her objections—which, indeed, from the beginning her heart had fought against. And the thought of John in what seemed an abyss of despair which had roused Elly to a swift determination to suffer no more interference, to go to him, stand by him, marry him even in spite of himself, and whether he wished it or not, had also swept all prudential sentiments out of the warm heart of her aunt. They had rushed like a couple of doves flying to save some wounded eagle, like a couple of generous, inconsequent women, determined that there was nothing in heaven or earth that could not be overcome by their support and love. He had been met by some sudden obstacle, perhaps, to the success he had dreamt of—good heavens, what did that matter? And as for his father, his father, what could he have to do with it? Even now, when they knew all, though the elder woman had met the revelation with a shriek of dismay, Elly remained stolidly, stupidly unconscious of any force in it. It did not affect her intelligence at all: if it was anything, it was a reason for standing more determinedly, more constantly, by Jack, who wanted support—that was all. It was not even that she would not permit herself to see the force of it: she did not, actually. It passed by her intelligence, and did not touch her. The more reason to stand by Jack! that was all that Elly saw.
But as they drove along in the dingy cab, through the endless shabby streets, in the silence which was rendered more complete by the din and tumult of London round them, a better understanding came to both—even Elly began to find a tremor seize her. Her mind began to work in spite of herself. The moment that crime comes near, within the circle where honour has been always a foregone conclusion, and any infringement of the law a thing impossible, is a moment unspeakable, indescribable. It is bad enough when vice shows itself among all the pure traditions of an honourable family: but crime—something that cannot be excused by the force of temptation, that cannot be wept over as affecting the sinner only, who is nobody’s enemy but his own—but a breach of honesty, a crime against the law and against the rights of others! There are sins which are a thousand times more deeply guilty than theft or even forgery, but they are in a different category. Trial, conviction, the contamination of a prison, the felon’s obliteration from personality and right, make up a horror and shame of the actual, undeniable, matter-of-fact kind, which the dullest feel, and which affect the innocent with a sensation like a nightmare.
In the silence of their long drive Mrs. Egerton repeated now and then to herself, ‘A convict!’ with a shudder. Anything but that; if the father thus suddenly discovered had been a beggar, if he had been a poor broken-down drunkard, a reprobate! There are drunkards and reprobates, alas! everywhere, whom the best of families have to put aside into some corner, and veil with silence or with pitiful excuses, with abandonment or sacrificing love. But a convict cannot be hid. A man may live the purest life, he may win everything that energy and even genius can secure, but at the end of all the meanest may rise up and say, ‘Behold the convict’s son,’ and cover even a hero with shame. Imagination could not go so far as that in picturing the evils that are possible. Poor Jack! Poor boy! with his father a convict—a convict! The horror of it was so great and terrible that nothing was possible, save to say over and over these words of shame.
And Elly felt it still more deeply in her way. It seemed to ache all over her, this consciousness which she could never shake off, never forget. She took it for her own without doubt or question, embraced it, drew it close to her, with all the abandon of youth. It seemed to Elly that nobody would ever forget it, that it would be blazoned on Jack, and all who belonged to them, on their name, their dwelling, and, above all, on those great things that he was to do. And, of course, he could not give up his father; he must live with them, be their daily companion, this man who had spent years and years in a prison. She was silent, too, with a chill upon all her thoughts. No idea of deserting him ever came into Elly’s mind. She accepted the misery as for her too. And all the accounts she had ever heard of the cruelty of the world in visiting disgrace upon the innocent came into her mind. Could they live it down? she asked herself, or must Jack, poor Jack, dear Jack, with only her to console him, live under this shadow, this awful, undeserved shadow, all his life?
Things were better when they got to their rooms, where all was quiet, as quiet as a London street can ever be; and where, as they sat down facing each other with nothing to do, the irrepressible controversy broke forth:
‘Your father will never, never hear of it,’ Mrs. Egerton said. ‘Never! Even I myself, Elly—— A convict—how could we let you connect yourself with a convict? And your father and brother both clergymen! Percy would die first. I am sure he would see you die first. And even your father: your father—can be very decided when he takes a thing into his head.’
‘You said so before, Aunt Mary. You said you never would consent; but you talk now as if you would have consented; as if you had consented.’
‘Ah, that was very different!’ Mrs. Egerton said. And in her heart Elly felt that it was different, oh, how different! So different, that even Elly herself felt with a shudder that something was before her quite other than love and happiness. There would still be love, oh, more than ever! but bitter with pain and shame.
It was the afternoon when John came to them. They perceived at once, with their quick, feminine habit of reading the face and its expression, that some change had occurred since the morning. Elly rushed to meet him, when he entered, with both her eager hands held out, but John turned from her, shaking his head with sorrowful self-control. He came and sat down opposite Mrs. Egerton. And there followed a moment in which no one spoke. Mrs. Egerton lifted up her hands, and clasped them together with the natural eloquence of restrained emotion.
‘Oh, Jack,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘oh, my poor boy!’
Pity, tenderness, reluctance, the inexorable impossible were in her looks. It could not be, it could not be; and yet it broke her heart to say so; in such moments there is little need of words.
‘I want to tell you,’ he said. ‘I want to show you——’ He took Mr. Barrett’s paper from his pocket, and spread it out before them: the figures on it were like hieroglyphics in the women’s eyes. ‘This is what I hoped for,’ he said, ‘when I left Edgeley that day—— I don’t know how long ago, it might be a century. My great scheme, that I had all my heart in, is to be carried out. It will bring me a fortune: it is a great work, a work any man might be proud to do. I have got my foot on the ladder, sure. It is not mere hope any longer, but sure, as sure as anything that is mortal can be.’
‘Oh, Jack!’ cried Elly, rushing to his side once more.
‘I am very glad, Jack,’ said Mrs. Egerton, with a trembling voice, ‘very glad, very glad, for you—but, oh, my poor boy——’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you glad, indeed? that’s very good of you. I’m not glad, not a bit. It doesn’t matter. I’ll work at it all the same, but I don’t care. It’s the same thing to me whether it goes on or whether it stops. You need not shake your head, for I know—I know it makes no difference. But I thought I must come and tell you. I am going to make my fortune: but it does not matter to anyone in the wide world, and I don’t care.’
‘Jack,’ said Elly, standing by his side, ‘have you made up your mind that you will pay no attention to what I think or what I say?’
He looked at her in such a bewildering passion of misery and hopelessness that all expression seemed to have gone out of his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can’t, I can’t—even if you would.’ Then he paused, drawing a breath which was half choked by something hysterical in his throat. ‘But I had to come and tell you. It’s what we used to talk of long ago. It’s—it’s the lighthouse, Elly!’ he cried, with a sudden sob which all the manhood of twenty-one could not restrain, and buried his face in his hands.
She flung her arms round him, bent down over him, holding his bowed head to her breast. She was half-sister, half-mother, protector, guardian, as well as his love. Tender, domestic affection, unabashed, as well as the strong passion of the woman, shone in the eyes with which she turned to the weeping spectator.
‘Do you think you or anyone will ever part me from Jack?’ she said.
‘Oh, children, do not break my heart! Your father will never, never consent—and Percy—and everybody who knows. Jack, for pity’s sake, tell her, tell her! She will listen, perhaps, to you.’
It was a minute at least, a long, long time, before John raised himself, detaching those dear arms.
‘Elly,’ he said, ‘I am my father’s son. People have distrusted me all my life, and I never knew why. They may distrust me yet, and I will know the reason, and God knows what it may make of me. No, I know that your father will not consent.’
‘And a girl’s own mind is nothing,’ she cried, indignant, ‘I know you all think so, whatever you may say.’
John turned to Mrs. Egerton with a piteous look.
‘It is you that must tell her,’ he said, ‘how can I do it? I’m young, too. I only know you mustn’t decide, Elly, at your age. You don’t know the world; you don’t know what you’re doing. If everything had been straightforward with me, you are still above me, gentlefolks, while I am nobody. You said so——’
‘Oh, Jack, Jack!’ said Mrs. Egerton, as if this was a reproach.
‘Everything is straightforward with you,’ said Elly. She had drawn away from him with a little movement of pride. ‘But,’ she said, ‘it is true enough. I don’t know the world, and neither do you. Perhaps we are too young. If you say that, or if Aunt Mary says that, I will not make any objection, Jack—how should I? I don’t want to force you to—to have me before the time——’
The extreme youth of both gave them a simplicity of words and good faith which elder lovers could not have ventured on. He accepted what she said in all seriousness and humility.
‘But there’s more than that,’ he said. ‘Oh, Elly, I can’t deny it, I can’t disguise it, there’s more than that. If it was only that we were too young! But everything is against us. And how could I, loving you all my life, owing everything to you as I do——’
‘You owe me nothing, nothing, Jack! It is all the other way.’
‘Ah, don’t say that, for I know better. I was just thinking—it’s all you, Elly. I should have gone into an office, or wherever they pleased to put me. I should not have minded. It was all your lighthouse. And to think,’ said Jack, as if that furnished him with a new argument, ‘that I should bring you to shame! Never, Elly; I would rather die.’ He paused a moment and shook his head. ‘It’s no good talking of dying, is it, at my age? I’d rather—live alone as I’ve always done, and do my work the best I could, and agree that there was nothing more for me in this world.’
‘Jack!’ cried Elly, with a kind of shriek of exasperation and tenderness and contradiction; and then she turned from him, her eyes flaming bright under the dew of tears, her cheeks like two deep roses, her mouth quivering, smiling, touched with fine scorn. She wanted some one to vent her loving wrath, her disdain of all mean arguments, her boundless, fiery indignation upon. ‘Aunt Mary,’ she cried, ‘how dare you to say so, or to think it? My father is a gentleman! He may not be much as a parson—it’s not for me to say: but he’s as fine a gentleman as Chaucer’s knight. Say all the bad things you please, you two, I know what’s in papa! He will no more forbid me to marry John than he would turn against the poor boy himself for what’s no fault of his. But I won’t do it now,’ Elly added, magnanimously, breaking into a laugh, which much resembled crying. ‘Not now. I’ll wait till I’m one-and-twenty. And then I’ll do it with my father’s full consent, whatever you may do or say, you two!’
With which defiance flung at them, Elly majestically marched out of the room, leaving them to conclude the conference together. What she did after, whether she did anything but retire to her room and cry, burying her face in the coverlet of her bed where she had thrown herself, no one can say; for nobody ever knew from Elly what torrents of tears came after that thunderstorm, nor how she trembled, and wondered, and doubted if papa were really so noble, so good, so fine a gentleman as she had asserted him to be.
‘They will never consent,’ said Mrs. Egerton, after the girl had gone, ‘Oh, Jack, I wish I could believe as she does, that my brother—— But I will not deceive you, Jack. He will never, never consent. He is a proud man, though she does not know it—there are no such proud people as these simple people. I wish, I wish I could think as she does: but I can’t, I can’t, Jack!’
‘Do you really wish it, Mrs. Egerton,’ said John, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘I could not have expected that. It is more than I had any right to hope.’
‘Did I say I wished it? I can’t tell. She and you draw the heart out of my breast. I ought not to wish it. Oh, Jack, my poor Jack, this is a dreadful thing to bear.’
He let her hand go with a deep sigh. ‘Who can feel that as I do?’ he said.
‘You; oh, but it is different with you. The man (I am sure I beg your pardon) is your father. It is your duty to put up with him: it is not for you to bring up his sins against him. But we that have nothing to do with him—Jack, oh, Jack, the cases are different! and you say yourself that Elly ought not—that she knows nothing of the world.’
It was ungenerous to appeal to what he had himself said. But he consented with a melancholy movement of his head.
‘The rector has always been very kind to me. Oh, yes, I know that’s a different thing altogether. It is not like giving me—— Mrs. Egerton, I think I had better go away, for what is the use of talking. He is my father, it is true. It is my business to put up with it, to bear it—to bear everything that follows from it—but it is hard. You can’t say but what it is hard.’
‘Oh, Jack, my poor boy! She took his hand in both of hers, and, that not being enough, bent forward and kissed him in the anguish of her sympathy. ‘But what can I say to you? I can’t deceive you. I know they will never, never consent.’
John went away, not knowing where he went, as if he were following his own funeral. He felt like that, he said to himself, sadly—the funeral of all his hopes. He had his work, but what would that be, what could it matter if he made his fortune, without Elly? And then he went on reflecting, as many a man has done before him, on the spite of fate. If this had all happened before he went to Edgeley, how much less would the misery have been! It would have been bad enough, but he could have thrown it off, and perhaps in time have forgotten it: for then Elly was but a light of his childhood faint and far-off, and had not become a necessity of his life. Why was he permitted to go and see her again, to discover all that she was to him, only to lose her for ever? For Elly had been right in what she had said in her indignation, ‘A girl’s own mind is nothing.’ Even John, though he had perfect trust in her, though for a moment he had been carried away by the flash of her resolution and certainty, did not take much comfort now from Elly’s pledge. She did not understand (how should she?) what thing it was that so lightly, so easily, she made up her mind to take upon herself. Poor John put that aside in the deep despondency that overwhelmed him. And, when his mind recurred to his momentary triumph of the morning, it but added a pang the more. To think that this success had secured the only thing that had been needed a little while ago; and, now he had got it, it was nothing. He went slowly, slowly away, following (he said to himself again) his own funeral, not able to hold up his head.