‘The curse?’ said John, awed, confused, overcome. Things began to come to his mind dimly, vaguely, turning to perhaps another point of view.
‘And now I suppose this is the very first time you have ever been free,’ said Susie, in a tone of despair, wringing her hands. ‘The first night in London—where you came with your heart full of grief, and no evil thoughts— Oh, none! mother said so. But the very first time you go out, the first time you have the chance, the first night—oh, it is cruel, cruel! the first night—— Oh, John, John, John!’
‘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.
‘You should have taken a hansom and come home,’ said Susie. ‘You might have known we should be anxious. If you had done that, all would have been well.’
And she shook her head at the story of the Montressors, listening in silence to all he said. John heard his voice grow more and more apologetic, though he did not mean it. They were kind people, they had been very good to him; why should he apologise for them? But yet his voice took this tone. When he had done, there was a silence, a silence which was full of disapproval. Susie sat with her head on her hand. She said nothing, she did not even look at him. The pain of his first alarm was over, but her mind was not satisfied. After a while she rose, and, going up to him, put an arm round him.