‘Oh, not with the same reason,’ said the curate, with an air that was insufferable. John felt that presently he might be moved to pitch the friend of his youth out of window, notwithstanding Elly and notwithstanding the clerical coat. ‘Let us cling at least to the idea that you would save us. But, I say, look here—don’t you know——’
It had become very embarrassing indeed, and difficult to carry out, while John sat and looked at him seriously and attentively, not giving any assistance whatever.
‘Oh, I say,’ Percy repeated, ‘don’t you know? though we all think so highly of you, and wish you every success—oh, yes, we do, all of us, as much as anyone can. But, Jack, now don’t be offended. Just call your good sense to your aid, and you will see the reason in it. It is about Elly. Most likely you know beforehand what I want to say.’
‘No, not I,’ said John, all the meaning having arbitrarily disappeared from his face: and for a moment Percy, who was not so hard-hearted as he made himself appear, sat before him, a very awkward mortal, endeavouring to clear his throat and say what he had come to say.
In the midst of this, quite suddenly the door opened and a miracle happened, one of those that go on happening every day, and which will continue to happen to the end of time. It was a miracle, yet it was a very simple fact. The door opened, and light-footed in her slippers, which she had gone to get, and a pretty dress, which it had seemed to her expedient to put on at the same time, in honour of John and his new-old house, Susie suddenly appeared, She was twenty-six, but she looked much younger, she looked any age that may be supposed the perfect age. Her pretty complexion was as sweet and fresh as eighteen; but in her eyes there was something more, a sweetness of understanding and gentle thought to which eighteen rarely attains. Her fair hair was not so carefully arranged as usual, and frisked a little about her temples. She came in with that air of perfect health, perfect content and harmony, which made her very appearance in the hospital so healing and tranquillising, her eyes very clear and kind, always with a smile latent in them, even when her mouth was grave. She came in with the air of having something to say, something that was upon her lips, but made an instant’s pause at the unexpected sight of a stranger whom she had never seen before.
That stranger, all embarrassed, startled beyond measure, feeling as if an angel had suddenly come in to recall him to a sense of the unfriendliness, the untenderness of what he was doing, gasped and rose from his chair and stood before her, in every line of his person and every feature of his face submissively asking pardon, though he could not understand how, and she had not the slightest idea why. Had Susie been indeed that angel passing by, coming in to ask what unseemly words were these that were about to be said, the young man could not have been more confounded. He stood for a moment like a culprit at the bar, while she paused with a slightly startled look, which brought just a little colour, and then a smile.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I thought there was no one here.’ And ‘I beg your pardon,’ cried he, with far more emphasis and meaning. There was indeed so much emphasis in it that Susie’s smile ran into a little laugh, and she said to her brother: ‘Shall I go away?’
‘No,’ said John, putting a chair for her. He was a little stern, thinking still of the words that had not been said.
‘Jack,’ said Percy, ‘won’t you introduce me to your sister?’ There was nothing but humility and submission in his tone, a change which was almost ludicrous in its completeness. But he had the clerical habit of explaining himself, of making amiable advances, which stood him in stead in the present emergency. ‘I am one of his oldest friends,’ he said, ‘and I hope you’ve heard of me, Miss Sandford. I’m Percy. If Jack hasn’t been a traitor to the old days, I make bold to believe that you must have heard of me.’
‘I have heard of you, often,’ said Susie, a little puzzled. She perceived now that the conversation which she had interrupted had not been of so affectionate a kind as might have been inferred from this address; and she felt that the character of it had been entirely changed by her appearance—a suggestion which was not unpleasant. ‘I have heard so much of everything at Edgeley,’ she continued, ‘that I feel as if, though I have never been here before, I was coming home.’