Gussy was the last to leave of that strange procession, of whom no one spoke to the other. She closed the door after her, and the curtains, and followed the erect figure of Dolff, drawn up as it never had been in his life before, and walking stiffly, as if carrying a new weight and occupying a position unknown. They all came into the hall, defiling solemnly one{265} after the other, to find Mrs. Harwood deposited in her chair and awaiting them, almost as if the whole events of the evening had been a dream and she had never left that spot. It was with a strange embarrassment, however, that they looked at each other in the pale, clear light as they emerged from the doorway, almost like making new acquaintance, as if they had never seen each other before. Nobody certainly had seen Dolff in that new manifestation; nor was Gussy, she whose very existence had been wrapped up in that of Meredith, who had only lived to watch him for weeks past, recognizable. It was she who came out the last, but who made herself the first of the group. “There may be a great many things to say,” said Gussy; “but not to-night. We have all had a great many agitations to-night. My brother has been hunted for his life. My mother has done a thing which, so far as we know, she hasn’t been able to do for years. Mr. Meredith has had a bad illness, for which it appears this unfortunate family is responsible too. I only and my little sister”—she paused here with an effort—“no; I will not pretend; I have had my share of the shock, too. We’d better all separate for the night.”
“Gussy!” cried Mrs. Harwood, with a sharp tone of appeal.
“Gussy!” cried Meredith, astonished, trying to take her hand to draw her towards him.
“Gussy!” said Dolff, with a certain indignation.
“It is of no use,” she said, quickly, “to appeal to me. I think I am the one who has been deceived all round. I thought I knew everything, and I’ve known nothing. Whatever may be the meaning of it, I for one am not able for any more to-night, and none of the rest ought to be able for it. I don’t know whether I may have been deceived there, too, about how much invalids could bear. Good-night, mamma. I advise you to get to bed.”
Gussy waved her hand to the others without a word, and walked upstairs without turning her head. The sudden failure of a perfect faith in all the world, such as she had entertained without entering into complications for which her mind was not adapted, is no small matter. It is alarming even for others to see. They all stood for a moment huddled together as if a rock or a tower had fallen before their eyes. They could scarcely see each other for the dust and darkness it made. All the other events of this startling night seemed to fall into the background. Gussy! who had been the central prop of the house, who had kept everybody together, done{266} everything! When she thus threw up her arms they were all left in dismay, and fell into an assemblage of atoms, of units—no longer a united party ready to meet all comers.
Meredith, perhaps, he who had been the most eager, was the most discomfited of all. He had claimed Gussy’s interest as his right for years. When she thus withdrew, not even asking if he were fatigued, speaking almost as if she thought that fatigue a pretence, he was so bewildered that he could do nothing. An anxious believer like this is accepted perhaps with too much faith and considered too inalienable a possession; and when she fails the shock is proportionately great. Without Gussy to stand by him, to make him believe himself a universal conqueror, always interesting, always important, Meredith for the moment was like an idol thrown from his pedestal. He was more astonished than words could say. He exclaimed, hurriedly,
“I think Gussy is right, as she always is. Mrs. Harwood, I will say good-night.”
Mrs. Harwood was altogether in a different mind. The period of reaction had not come with her as yet. She had got herself deposited in her chair in time enough to save her from any breaking down. And her spirit was full of excitement.
“I am ready,” she said, with a panting hot breath of mental commotion, “to explain—whatever it is necessary to explain. Take me back to my room, Dolff. It is cold here.”
“Good-night,” said Meredith. “I will not encroach upon you longer to-night.”
“As you like,” she said. “I warn you, however, that to-morrow—— Dolff, take me back to my fire.”
Dolff was unsubdued, like his mother. The reaction from a long period of suspense, and the sense of safety after a great alarm, no doubt acted upon his mind: though, so far as he was aware, he was moved by nothing save the overwhelming discovery he had made, and his indignant sense of wrong in finding such a secret retreat unsuspected, in his mother’s—in his own—house.
“We’ll be better alone,” he said, in the stern tone which was so new to him, putting his hand upon her chair; “but perhaps you could walk if you tried,” he added, with rude sarcasm.
He drove rather than wheeled her before him into the deserted room, where all was so brilliant and warm, the light blinking in the bright brass and steel, the lamps serenely burning, everything telling of the tranquil life, unbroken by{267} any but cheerful incidents, which had gone on there for so many years.
“Now, mother,” said Dolff, “we have got to have it out. Who is that man upstairs?”
Julia had followed them unremarked, and remained behind her mother’s chair. Dolff stood before them, in the full firelight, very erect, inspired with indignation and that sense of superiority which injury gives. It had elevated him altogether in the scale of being. His own shortcomings had fallen from his consciousness. He was aware of nothing but that he, Dolff, in reality the head of the family, had been deceived and compromised.
Mrs. Harwood took but little notice of her son. She took up her work which had been thrown upon the table and turned it over in her fingers.
“Gussy was right,” she said, “though she was a little brusque in her way of saying it. I am certainly unable to bear anything more to-night.”
“I suppose, however, you can answer my question,” said Dolff.
“Go to bed, boy,” said his mother, “and don’t worry me. We have two or three things to talk over, you and I, which are too much for to-night.”
“I am not a boy any longer,” cried Dolff; “you have made me a man. Who is it you have been hiding for years upstairs?”
She gave vent to a little fierce laugh.
“For my pleasure,” she said; “for my amusement, as anybody may see.”
“Whether it is for your amusement or not,” said Dolff, “I am of age, and I have a right to know who is living in my house.”
“In your house!” Her exasperation was growing. “Don’t force me, Dolff, to go into othe............