[CHAPTER XXXII
IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE]
‘IF you please, sir,’ said Jenny, and, as she spoke, she courtseyed again, ‘if it’s so as ye are Mr Lee I have come to speak with ye. I’ve been speakin’ to this gentleman as they say is your nephy, an’ he won’t listen to me nor make answer to what I say. But I’ve followed him to the town, so as I may see him in your presence, and tell before ye all I’ve to say to him.’
There was silence. The hearts of both men—even of the uncle—must have been beating quickly, for both were panting, and did not reply. Jenny stood in the midst of the room, very pale, and perfectly quiet, but with a self-possession that would have been impossible in her shrinking girlhood—the self-possession that comes with years and trials. Her dress showed signs of her long walk, but it could not conceal that her figure was slight; and her close black bonnet was no unfitting setting for her Madonna-like, worn, troubled face. For years and wretchedness had left her still a lovely woman, and it is possible that Mr Lee may have been aware of it. He did not speak; he had flung himself back in his arm-chair, and, with his chin upon his clenched hand kept his harsh face turned to her. Through the moments that followed the most intense silence reigned; but Jenny was gathering her strength, and after a while she spoke again.
‘It’s a few months ago, sir,’ she said, still addressing Mr Lee, ‘it was just before harvest time that my daughter Annie, my only daughter, went away from her home one night. And then, on the next night, very late, almost on to mornin’, she was lyin’ on my door-step as if she’d not no strength to move. And I took her in, an’ she’d not tell me what had chanced. But on one of her fingers there was a wedding-ring. And the neighbours they talked; they said strange things of her an’ me. But I couldn’t get her to confess, although I tried ever so. It was only to-night, sir, as I’ve been given cause to know who the man might be as took my child from her home.’
After another minute, ‘It’s perhaps I wouldn’t have courage to come to your house, sir, an’ say these things to you, if your niece and nephy had left one o’ my two children to stay in my home an’ comfort me for the t’ other one. But your niece she got hold o’ my boy—I didn’t know that till to-night—an’ she’s got him to give her a letter as you wrote to t’ Squire. An’ t’ Squire’s sent for him. An’ they say he’ll be disgraced. He’s my only son, sir, the only one I have. The father’s a bad one, an’ has been a bad husband; an’ t’ boy an’ t’ girl are all that I have left.’
Again after a pause; ‘I’ve been speakin’ to your nephy. An’ he pushed me agen t’ wall. Ye may see t’ bruise upon my face. An’ he said he’d kill me. But I don’t care for that. I’d be killed a hunderd times over to save t’ girl an’ boy. He ought to tell me if he’s t’ husband of my daughter. An’ he oughter do something to save t’ boy from harm. I’ve come to ye, sir, as I may speak to him before ye. He can’t hurt ye so easy, sir, as he hurts me.’
Her low voice appeared to thrill through the room, in which the most breathless, the most intense silence reigned. Jenny had used all her strength in order to get through her speech, as one who upon his last venture pours all the wealth he has. But she was upright still, and composed, though very pallid, and through her pale lips her breath came quietly. The servant was gone, although the door stood open, and in the room were only the two men she had addressed; Mr Lee, who sat in his armchair with his face turned away; and James Gillan, with rigid features, fixed lips, and glaring eyes. He seemed to have been swept from his usual self-possession, appalled by this spectre which stood in front of him; and now through the silence there came words stern and terrible as the formal questions that precede the uttering of doom. It was Mr Lee who spoke, but he did not rise from his seat, and even as he spoke he kept his face turned away.
The question had been asked, and as it compelled an answer the unhappy young man made some stammering reply—he faltered that on the woman’s own showing he was a stranger to her; and that it was hard to be obliged to reply to the lies a stranger told. His answer was immediately succeeded by a question, more stern, more relentless even than the first.