Read Ebook: The Son of His Father; vol. 2/3 by Oliphant Mrs Margaret

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Ebook has 681 lines and 64375 words, and 14 pages

John stood up, but felt faint and giddy. It seemed ridiculous in a few minutes to change from the robust village youth who feared nothing to a creature whose head seemed to swim independent of him, and who could not steady himself. He caught at the arm of the tall man to support himself.

'That's right, that's right, me noble boy. I'll take him home with me. The child is unhurt, me young hero. She's waiting out o' doors with her mother, who's longing to embrace ye and bless ye. Come, it's but a step to me humble door.'

John was not quite clear about this address, but he was glad of the tall man's arm, on which he could lean, and allowed himself to be led away in a dazed condition through the crowd, followed by the woman and the child, who was still crying with fright and excitement. The mother, happily, neither embraced nor blessed him, but he was so dazed that he scarcely knew what happened, except that she looked at him anxiously, with troubled eyes. He was glad of the support of the man, who guided him very kindly for a little way through the crowded street, then suddenly turned down a quiet one. Here the waft of a purer, colder air upon John's face brought him to himself, and he would have drawn his arm from that of his guide.

And presently John found himself, after stumbling up several flights of stairs, in a room high up, very shabbily and sparely furnished, where there was a glimmer of fire, and where he was not unwilling to sit down and rest, though his senses had come back to him, and he began to recover from the shock. While he sat looking round him, vaguely wondering with his still slightly clouded faculties where he was, and if, perhaps, he might have fallen into some of the traps he had read of, the couple talked a little in whispers behind him. Was it of him they were talking? Were they consulting together what to do with him? He smiled to himself even while he half entertained this thought. Then one innocent word came to his ears which made him laugh to himself. It was 'sausages.' John, in his most suspicious mood, in the deepest alarms of the country lad, could not suppose that they meant to make sausages of him. The sound of his laugh startled both himself and the little group behind him. The woman hurried away, and the man came forward with the grand air which sat so strangely on his evident poverty.

'Ye laugh, me young friend,' he said. 'Perhaps ye overheard our consultations how to receive ye, our young benefactor. It is not much at present that is in Montressor's power, but what we have is at your service to the last sou. I am not an ungrateful, though ye see in me a fallen man. Did ye see the crowds at that theatre door? Young sir, a few years ago it was to see Montressor those crowds--and there were more, more! than are ever drawn now--that those crowds flowed in to boxes, pit, and gallery, and not a scrap of paper, but all solid money throughout the house.'

John but dimly understood, but yet had a glimmering of what was meant.

'Are you Montressor?' he said.

Montressor lifted his hands, in one of which was still the shiny hat, to heaven--or rather to the low, smoke-darkened ceiling which was its substitute.

'But, indeed, I think I must go,' said John, with the timidity of his age. 'I feel all right now. It was only just for a moment. I feel quite steady, and I think I must go.'

'Not before ye have tasted such hospitality as I have to give ye, me heroic boy. The saviour of me child must not go from me doors without a sign of me appreciation--without a bit of supper, at least. Maria! are ye come at last? And here is our honoured guest that says he must go. Come, child, and bid ye'r deliverer stay.'

'Wait and take some supper,' said the woman, with her pathetic look; 'it will be a pleasure to us both. It's not late, and you needn't fear; you'll get no harm.'

'Harm!' said her husband, 'from you, me love, or from Montressor? No, he will get no harm, whatever a brutal manager or designing critics may say. Thank God, Maria, corrupting the young was never laid to your husband's charge, me dear. He shall see that conscious virtue is not ashamed of humble offices. I will prepare the table while she makes ready our food. There is nothing derogatory in that, me young friend. Look at Mrs. Montreseor if you would see one that is superior to every fortune. She has had her cooks, her housemaids, her grooms; she has driven in her own carriages, and worn silks and satins. And now ye see her preparing to fry the sausages. And which is the finest office?--the last, sir!--for she's always a lady--a perfect lady--whatever her occupation may be.'

John did not feel called upon to make any answer to this. He sat in a half dream of wonderment, while all these domestic arrangements went on in this strange little interior, where all was so new and extraordinary to him. How had he got there? What sort of place was it? What kind of people were these? The curious serio-comic character of the episode did not strike him so much as it might have done an older spectator; but the hissing of the sausages on the fire, before which this unknown woman stood, her wistful eyes fixed upon the frying-pan, while her husband, with his fine language and fine sentiments, laid the cloth upon the table behind, were too strange, too peculiar, too ridiculous, even--for he was hungry again, and there was a sort of warm friendliness in the air that comforted his young, childish soul--too comfortable, not to affect the boy. He felt a sort of pleasurable disquietude and alarm and embarrassment. He ought to go, he felt, but he was shy and they were kind, and he did not know how to get himself away. Presently the child who was the occasion of it all, and who had clung to her mother's skirts all the time, pulled a stool towards John's feet, and sitting down by him began to pat his leg with soft little touches.

'Did it hurt much,' she said, 'that big horse's foot? I called mamma and it was you. What made you get hurt for a poor little girl like me?'

'What made him? It was God, Edie, to save you to mother: and God bless him for it,' said the woman, turning round.

'It was a heroic action,' said Montressor, 'it was the act of a hero, me chyild. Your saviour will always be to us a noble youth. Me young benefactor, as yet we do not know your honoured name.'

John paused for a moment. He never could tell what curious impulse possessed him. Perhaps it was because he was in a new world of his own discovery, with which no one else had anything to do. He said, with the blood rushing to his face,

'My name is John May.'

When he heard his own voice, his heart gave a great leap and throb; but whether it was the feeling of one who takes a false name, or of one who for the first time claims a true one, he could not tell. The act, which was almost involuntary, filled him with an excitement which he could not explain.

'May!' cried Montressor--'Maria! what did I say? that there was something in the countenance of this noble youth not unfamiliar. I knew a May once--I have not forgotten him. Me young friend, ye are like that companion of me youth--yes, ye are like him. I felt it from the first. He was the kindest, the dearest--but misfortune fell upon him. Ah! may it be that the blood of our friend runs in your veins.'

'Montressor,' said his wife, hurriedly, 'this young gentleman can have nothing to do with the May you once knew. It is not a thing to be talked about, that connection. You know what I mean. There is not the slightest likeness, nor the least possibility: for goodness sake keep your ideas to yourself, and think how impossible--The supper is ready,' she added, in a lighter tone. 'Come, Mr. May, a little food will do you good, though it is neither rich nor rare.'

SUSIE.

John did not leave his new friends till late, and when he did so he felt quite well, nay, more than well, in a state of elation and satisfaction with himself and all the world. The pain from his wound was quite gone. It had not been bad at any time. The shock only was what had affected him. Now he remembered it no more, except that his hat, when he put it on, pressed a little upon the place, which was only half hidden by his hair. Mrs. Montressor had assured him that it would not show, but John did not care whether it showed or not: he was, indeed, rather proud of it, very willing to tell how it came about, and the whole story of his adventure. He had supped with pleasure upon the sausages, and he had shared with Montressor a steaming drink, hot and strong and sweet, which had made him cough, but which gradually had brought a glow of comfort over him. He had been a little afraid of it at first, and had not taken much, but he was quite unaccustomed to anything of the kind, and it mounted to his head at once, filling him with causeless elation, satisfaction, exhilaration.

He felt pleased with himself and everybody round him. Montressor he thought a capital fellow, and listened to him with admiration, and Mrs. Montressor was awfully kind, and the little girl was a dear little girl. He had never enjoyed himself more. He was delighted with the adventure, and felt that this was indeed life. He might have spent a whole century in Edgeley without meeting anything of the kind. He got away at last with difficulty, promising to come back. That is, Montressor endeavoured to keep him longer, and John, to tell the truth, had been not at all indisposed to stay. It was the woman who had urged his departure. She had given a great many hints, she had, indeed, given John a warning look when her husband got up to fetch the kettle to make more of that steaming, odoriferous drink. She had even whispered in his ear to go, saying that it was time for him to go to bed; and half offended, yet half approving, John had obeyed. None the less he thought her awfully kind, and Montressor a capital fellow.

Notwithstanding the pleasurable sensations with which John set out on his walk, it was no small business to get home. Nothing could be more confusing than the streets, the corners which he seemed to recognise, and then felt that he had mistaken, the curious windings of the way, the impossibility of distinguishing one from another. He seemed to himself to have been walking for hours, much hustled and knocked about, but serenely indifferent in his happy state of mind, when he became aware of the great mass of the Houses of Parliament rising against the sky of night, which now was full of stars and soft clearness; and the bridge leading away from all the noise and crowding into darkness and quiet. He scarcely paused this time to look at the carriages coming and going, but passed by with a pleasant consciousness that there were other centres of existence almost as important as that of Parliament. He knew nothing really about Parliament, beyond what everybody knew, beyond what was in the papers every morning: but his head was buzzing with anecdotes of the great people of the drama, the 'stars' whom Montressor knew, and among whom he had figured, and hoped to figure again. The names of these distinguished persons rustled confusedly through the boy's brain. He almost felt that he had been supping with them, hearing all their wit. What a fine thing to have come so near that brilliant sphere on his very first night in town! And Montressor had promised him tickets for the first night on which he should himself assume the leading place to which he had been accustomed.

'A box, me dear young gentleman, to which you can take the ladies of your family,' that, high-minded individual had said; 'for ye will never see the name of Montressor in any play-bill where the performance is not fit for a refined female's eyes.'

His steps as he came along made a noise upon the pavement which frightened him. He thought confusedly of the steps stumbling along the street in the village when the public-house closed, and how the old people, if by chance they were up so late, would shake their heads. He seemed to hear the stumble, the little interval of dulled sound when those late passengers took the softer path along the garden wall; then the sudden access of noise, when they arrived, with a swerve and lurch, upon the bit of pavement. Good heavens! Might people inside these houses hear his steps and think the same? for it seemed to him that he, too, stumbled and swerved and scraped along the pavement. This, however, was but a momentary chill; he said to himself what did it matter? he was all right; there was nothing to be said against him; and, with an attempt to call up the elation of mind which had nearly worn out, and a step which was jaunty in attempted carelessness, he went on. The jauntiness, however, was a little marred by the necessity of examining the houses to see which was his own. They were so horribly like each other! John did not know how to make sure which was the right one in the imperfect shining of the few lamps, and under the shadow of the hospital. He went past the lighted window, and then returned again. Some one, he thought, was looking out at the edge of the blind; but then no one could be looking out for him.

A door opened softly while he was trying to find something by which he could recognise the house, and then a voice, more soft still, whispered,

'John--John Sandford? Is it John?'

He turned back with a thrill of mingled alarm and relief, and at the same time a quick start of contradiction.

'I'm John--John May,' he replied, with a sudden confused impulse. 'Is this the house?'

'Oh, come in. Oh, come in! You don't know me? I'm Susie. Oh, John, John, where have you been? I have been waiting for you for hours. Oh, John!' She had pulled him into the little parlour where one candle was burning, and looked at him strangely, with a look of terror and distress. She threw her arms round his neck, then drew back without kissing him, and cried again, in a tone of reproach, 'Oh, John, John!'

'What is it!' he said. 'Are you Susie? What is it? I went out for a walk. I did not know anyone was coming to-night.'

She stood looking at him fixedly. He had taken off his hat, and the plastered cut, which Mrs. Montressor said would not show, showed, alas! painfully upon his forehead, though half covered by the ruffled hair, which by half concealing made it appear greater than it was. He caught sight of himself at the same time in the little glass over the mantelpiece. He was very pale, his hair very much ruffled by the wind, his shirt a little disordered in the dressing of his wound, his coat imperfectly brushed by the Montressors, showing still some signs of a fall--and in his eyes a sort of wildness which he himself saw, but did not understand.

'What is the matter with you, Susie--if it is Susie. Why do you look at me so? What have I done? I lost my way, and I am dreadfully tired,' he added, sitting down, suddenly falling into despondency as great and causeless as his elation had been before.

'Where have you been? You have been in a--row, or something. Oh, John, John! I came rushing, so glad, so glad to see my brother. Oh, I've looked for you so long! and to find you like this, like this, at last!' and she covered her eyes with her hands.

'Like what?' he said, feeling his lips stammer in spite of himself, his voice thick. 'I don't know what you mean.'

She uncovered her eyes and gave him a look--such a look--of love and pity, and horror and dismay.

'Oh, John,' she said, 'oh, John!' as if all reproach and all tenderness, and everything that the heart could say of blame and forgiveness and heavenly pity, were in that utterance of his name.

He knew nothing of that which put meaning and misery into her cry. No one had ever warned him, no one had enlightened him, the facts were all unknown, yet something of the feeling in her suddenly stricken and aching consciousness came into his.

'Yes,' she said, with an echo in her voice, which made the words seem like the very climax of despair, 'the first night!'

'She has put you against me,' said John.

It was John's turn now to question. He asked:

Then Susie came suddenly to herself.

'The curse?' said John, awed, confused, overcome. Things began to come to his mind dimly, vaguely, turning to perhaps another point of view.

'What have I done?'

There was no elation about him now. His serenity of soul was gone, and all the floating visions of pleasure, and assurance that this was life. He half understood what she must mean, because he felt what a difference had taken place in him, and how ridiculous his thoughts of half-an-hour ago began to appear.

'You come in late,' she said, 'very late. You have a cut in your forehead; you have mud on your coat and your knees. You've fallen somewhere, and been hurt. You come in quite jaunty and gay, and then, before I have said anything almost, you sink down and don't know what to say.'

'Almost!' he said, with a scornful intonation--almost nothing meant everything that could be said or hinted, it seemed to John. He had never known before what domestic altercation or fault-finding was. It was the strangest novelty in his life. The old people, perhaps, would have been anxious too. They would have asked him all about it--they would not have liked him being so late. But how different their indulgent waiting for his explanation, from this sudden indictment, so full of implications which he did not understand. The Houses of Parliament, and the bustle of the Strand, and Montressor with his stories, might be new, but this was newer, still more strange to him. And yet she was so unhappy that John could not resent it. He had gradually come back to himself, to the boy who had never been misjudged, of whom nobody had ever suggested harm. His good sense returned with his recollection. After all, he had done nothing to be ashamed of. He thought of the steaming hot drink which had made him wince and cough, and then had made him feel so much at his ease, so full of self-appreciation. If that was wrong, then it was all that was wrong.

He collected his faculties while he sat thus silent, looking at his sister, the sister of whom he had always thought so tenderly, but to whom now it seemed he had brought such cruel disappointment. How was it? The accusation seemed to him so false and unreasonable that he could not understand how it could be maintained. And he was not angry; this gave him an immense advantage, he thought--not angry, but only astonished more than words could say.

And then he told her the whole story from the beginning to the end, with a tone of apology which surprised himself, but which did not convince her, he saw. And yet there was nothing to apologise for. It was a good thing, not a bad, he had done. He had saved the child: if perhaps Montressor had made too much of it, still it was not a bad action to throw one's self into the middle of the street to pick out a little unknown child from under the horses' hoofs. He had no reason to be ashamed of it. He felt his breast swell a little with involuntary self-approval as he went on. No, there was nothing to be ashamed of. The cut on his forehead began to hurt him a little as he talked of it. He had not taken time to think of it before. But now, when he did think of it, it hurt, and he felt a little pride in the consciousness. And then there were the Montressors. Well, he did not know anything about them, to be sure, but they had been very grateful to him, and he had felt shaken, not very able to walk, confused in his head.

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