Susie took no independent action in the matter. She left it now to him, as she had left it all her life to her mother, feeling such questions beyond her, she who was so ready and so full of active service in the practical ways of life. She left the decision to those who were better able to make it, but with an altogether new and delightful confidence such as she had never known before; for Mr. Cattley was far more merciful than anyone who in Susie’s experience had ever touched this painful matter. Mrs. Sandford had desired nothing so much as never to hear the name of the husband through whom she had suffered so many humiliations and miseries again; but Mr. Cattley would not permit the natural right to be shaken off, or the claims of blood abandoned. Susie turned to him with a gratitude which was beyond words in her mild eyes. Her mother’s panic and loathing were cruel, but he was ever kind and just. She looked at him with that sense that he was the best of created beings, which it is so expedient for a wife to possess. Even love does not always carry this confidence with it, but Susie was one of the women who will always, to the last verge of possibility, give that adoration and submission to the man upon whom their affections rest. And happily she had found one by whom, as far as that is possible to humanity, they were fully deserved.
They set out together in the morning sunshine, after many arguments and consultations with Mrs. Sandford, to seek John in his lodgings and settle if possible upon some common course of action. But, though so many painful questions were involved, these two people were able to dismiss them as they walked along together. They seemed to step into a land of gentle happiness the moment they were alone with each other, though in the midst of the crowded streets. They went across the bridge making momentary involuntary pauses to look at the traffic on the river, forgetting that they ought not to have had any attention to spare for such outside matters. Though Susie was entirely town-bred, they looked what they were henceforward to be—a country pair, a rural couple come up from their vicarage to see the world. There ought not to have been so much ease, so much sweetness in the morning to May the convict’s daughter: and yet she could not help it, there it was. And to Mr. Cattley, who had always been accustomed to a somewhat secondary place, the sensation of being supreme was strangely delightful. A woman who can give that unquestioning admiration, that boundless trust, is always sweet. It is not every woman that can do it, however godlike may be the man: and the curate did not believe that he was godlike. But yet it was very delightful that she should think so. It was a surprise to him to receive this tender homage; but it was very sweet.
They had reached the quiet street in which John’s rooms were, when Susie was suddenly roused out of this heavenly state by the sight of some one coming hastily out of her brother’s door. They were still at a sufficient distance to see that he came out half-running, as if pursued, and that he looked round him with alarm as he came towards them, stumbling a little with uncertain steps. Something perhaps it was in this somewhat wavering movement which roused old recollections in her mind—and her father, but for that temporary lapse into personal blessedness, had been very much in the foreground of her imagination.
She let go Mr. Cattley’s arm with a shock of sudden awakening, with a cry of ‘Papa!’ She recognised him in a moment. He was in reality very little changed, far less changed than she was, the austerity of his prison life having preserved the freshness of early years in his face.
‘Papa,’ she said, and stopped and reddened with sudden emotion, ashamed to look at him who she thought must stand abashed before her, and for the first time fully apprehending this tragedy, which no one could smooth away.
‘Eh!’ he cried, and gave her a hurried look. ‘I am in a great hurry. I can’t speak to you now:’ then he stopped reluctantly, for the first time realising what she had said. No, it was not shame; he was not afraid of meeting her eye: but a look of curiosity and interest came into his face. ‘What’s that you are calling me? Do you know me? Who are you? Are you——? is this Susie?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, papa, it is Susie. Don’t go away. We were coming to look for you, to ask—don’t go away from us. You are not at all changed,’ she said, putting out her hands to detain him, ‘you are just the same. Papa, oh, where are you going? Don’t go away.’
‘You think so? Not changed! I might be—for you are changed, Susie, and so is the world; everything’s changed. Don’t stop me, I must go; your brother, if that is your brother—and if you are Susie——’
‘Have you seen John, papa?’
‘John,’ he repeated, with a half smile; and, though he had been in such haste, he stopped now at once with every appearance of leisure. ‘He may be John, but he’s not Johnnie, my little boy. He’s like a policeman,’ he went on, in a tone of whimsical complaint, rubbing his arm where John had grasped him; ‘he clutches in the same way. My little chap would never have behaved like that. And so you’re Susie? I see some likeness now. You were your mother’s pet, and the boy was mine. Ah! well, it comes to the same thing in the end. You’re both of you ashamed of me now.’