CHAPTER III.
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 (whose life he had saved—at first he had not allowed them to say this—but now he acknowledged the fact with pleasure) 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.
He could not leave them his address, for the good reason that he did not know it, though he felt sure that he could find his way back; but he promised, with enthusiasm, to return, to keep up a friendship so auspiciously begun, to hear more of those wonderful stories about the theatre with which his new friend had delighted him. With what smiles and shaking of hands, and promises to come back he got himself away! stumbling a little in the darkness, as he came downstairs, getting out into the night with that sensation of lightness and swimming in his head, with that elation in his mind which was indescribable, which had come he could not tell how. The air from the river blew in his face again as he came out, and he paused a little to consider, to retrace his steps in his own mind, and think out the best route. His conclusion was that he must get back to the Strand, and follow the road which had brought him here as well as he could, hoping to recognise the different places he had passed, and the bridge by which he had crossed the river. The Strand was as tumultuous as ever, but he paid much less attention to it. He had passed that first and ordinary stage. The streets! He felt that he knew now a little more about London life than was contained in the streets. He no longer allowed himself to be pushed hither and thither by the throng, but elbowed his way in the boldest manner, like a person, he hoped, to the manner born, with that delightful sensation of manhood and experience and satisfaction with himself. It was as if he had wings to his head, like a classical personage. It seemed to soar, and float, and carry him along. He could not help feeling that he had made a fine début in life, and jumped over a great many preliminaries. He was already ‘in the swing,’ he felt. To be sure, his new friends were poor: but that was a mere chance, and they might be rich again to-morrow. Montressor was not only a capital fellow, he was, by his own showing, a man of genius; and what a thing to leap in a moment, on his first step in London, into the intimacy of such a man! Of course he was a Bohemian, but everybody knew that Bohemians were the most amusing class; that all artists belonged more or less to it; that it was sausages and porter one night with them, and the next truffles and champagne.
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.’
John found this phrase delicious as it came back to his mind—‘a refined female.’ It was like ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ he said to himself. But at that moment he came in sight of the great hospital looming up against the sky, and its shadow came upon him like—like what?—like the shadow of death, he would have said in a graver mood, like a wet blanket, he said in his levity. But even the levity sank when he perceived that the lights were very faint in the great building, and that along the row of little houses opposite, so far as he could see, there was but one point of light, and that a very feeble one. Then, for the first time, John began to think that this new and delightful experience of his might have a very different aspect from another point of view. All was very still in the little street. If he had to knock to rouse the landlady, the echo would carry, he thought, ever so far, would penetrate the big walls opposite and wake the sick people, and disturb one stern sleeper. How should he explain himself? The first night! that which made the experience so delightful, made it also rather dreadful from the other side: for how could he make it clear to her that it was the first time he had ever essayed the adventures of the streets? His heart failed him as he drew near the house, and indeed he was not quite clear about the house, among so many others exactly the same.
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?’