CHAPTER XI.
THE OLD HOUSE.
John was not convinced, though he was a little discouraged, by Mrs. Egerton’s speech. To say that none of his people belonged there when the two, the only two who had trained and loved him, were lying side by side, unalterable inhabitants; and when all the associations of his boyhood, all he knew of home, was in this place! He was a little aggrieved, wounded and troubled by that phrase. They had always been so kind. It had never been made known to him in any way that he did not belong—that is, that he was not one of the known and accredited families who alone were on the same level as the Spencers. He knew indeed that he was not on the same level with them—he could remember, now he thought of it, the gratitude of his grandparents and their gratification at his adoption into the circle of the rectory. And there was nothing unkind in what Mrs. Egerton had said; perhaps she meant nothing at all; and, if she did mean anything, it was the kindest, mildest suggestion that he had perhaps no particular right to assume a place as one of the village aristocracy.
If she did mean that, John said to himself that he was not going to be discouraged by such a small matter. He was not, as a point of fact, connected with any great family like the Spencers. He was perhaps nobody, going to be the architect of his own fortunes; but why should he have less love for the scene of his early associations because of that? He went away a little earlier than he might otherwise have done, after the luncheon to which Mr. Cattley came with Percy, though he had said he should not. It was a very pleasant luncheon; nothing could have been brighter than the table, and the looks of the two ladies at least. There was a little too much clerical talk, talk about the parish; but then perhaps that was natural in a clerical house, and under the stimulus of a brand-new curate, just in harness, and much enamoured of his new position and power.
Percy was a little overpowering, all-pervasive, bringing back the conversation if it ever strayed for a moment from the regulation subjects, and Mr. Cattley was a little subdued, saying little, evidently feeling the oppression of this novelty, as well as the deepening influence of his approaching departure. John himself, sitting opposite to Elly, not able to avoid looking at her, getting accustomed to her new aspect, was not capable of a very lively part in the conversation. But yet it was all pleasant, and everybody was kind. He walked away alone afterwards down the village street, saying this to himself. Nobody could be more kind. John had no other friends to receive him in that way. When he had been in America and other places far from home, holding an important place in ‘the works,’ he had been thus entertained on various occasions; but at home he knew nobody, and lived in his own rooms in a very recluse fashion. To be so familiar at any family table, to be called by his Christian name—(though Percy said nothing but Sandford) was an unaccustomed pleasure, and one that he could enjoy only here. But, nevertheless, a cloud had come—even since the morning, since his first welcome. Then there had not been any cloud—now it was only to be divined from austere movements of Mrs. Egerton’s eyelids and tones of her voice: and yet John felt that it was there. ‘A little place quite out of the way, with which you have no real family connection.’ That was true enough: he understood what she meant, though he had never thought of it, or been moved by it before. The Sandfords were not established in the county, like the Spencers—they were nobodies, most likely: grandfather and grandmother had not been on the same level as the rector and Mrs. Egerton. It was quite true. It was only a cloud like a man’s hand, not so much. But still it was enough to spread a cold chill through that warm, sunshiny, delightful air of May.
With this in his mind, John walked down the street to see the old house. Notwithstanding the chill, he had not in the least degree changed his mind. If it was a silly thing, he would still do it. He did not pretend to be wise. He would please himself, whatever Mrs. Egerton might say; indeed, what she had said had confirmed him in this his intention, as sensible opposition so often does confirm us in the silly things which our hearts desire. And, when he got to the house, he found, to his surprise, that it would not be so difficult as he had supposed. It appeared that a good deal of the simple, old furniture had not been sold. And he felt as if it might have been a cleaning-day, such as some he recollected, and that grandmamma might be in some of the other rooms, taking refuge from the tubs and the charwoman, who had always been called in to help Sarah on such occasions. His heart and his eyes filled as he went over the house. The recollections of his childhood took possession of him, both sad and pleasant. All the happy past of his life had been spent there. He had known no vexation or misery there; nothing but hallowing grief, which is the one painfullest thing upon which the heart can go back without bitterness. He thought of them going away one after the other, and of his own desolation and the emptiness of the house; but how sweet these recollections were in comparison with what followed: and how much sweeter, tenderer, more delightful the happiness then, than even that buoyancy of well-being and self-satisfaction with which he had come back!
John retraced his steps after that survey with a subdued and softened heart; and he met Elly in the middle of the village street. She was walking quickly when he perceived her first, with her head turned towards his house, and every appearance of having a distinct aim and purpose in her walk. But, when she saw him, her intention seemed to change. Her aim suddenly failed her, her pace slackened, and an embarrassed look of not knowing where she was going came into her face. John did not understand this at first, until it suddenly flashed upon him that she might be going to meet him there. No doubt she perceived the chill that had come over him, and had hastened to console him. He hurried on to meet her, but, when he did so, found that she was turning off in another direction, with a look which was full of embarrassment.
‘I thought perhaps you were coming to take another look at the poor old place,’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ cried Elly, but her face contradicted her words.
‘I have just been going over it: the garden looks the same as ever: they have changed nothing; and the rooms could very easily be restored; they were never very much, never anything fine.’
‘They always seemed delightful to me,’ said Elly, simply.