Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

IF James Gillan had possessed an amount of courage equal to the skill for which we have given him credit more than once, he might have been able to make some resistance to calamity, even now when he beheld before him the uttermost of ruin. He could not. He had been weakened, physically and morally, by the self-indulgence in which he had lived all his life; he was shattered by the prospect of the ruin of his hopes, was visibly trembling, and scarcely fit to walk. Wild, whirling visions scattered each other in his mind as he followed his uncle through the dark passages, remembrances of the fatal marriage-night that had resulted in his separation from his bride. He cursed the violence, the impatience of her conduct, the contempt she had poured on his proposal of years of secrecy, as before now he had cursed the beauty which had so fatally enchained him that it had even induced him to deal honourably. For he had considered his marriage to be an act of supremest virtue, an atoning action for other actions in his life; and not the price that a man who has uncontrolled desires flings down to obtain a wish not otherwise attainable. It was that sensation of having been honourable that made him so little disposed to be honourable now.

And yet, as he followed his uncle through the passages he did ask himself whether it might not be better for him to tell the truth, and, if he had nerved himself to that nobler course, he might even then have averted a tragedy. He could not!—it was not in his nature to take so straight a path, and at the moment the risk appeared too great; he would deal rather in faltering words and half-confessions until he could make out on which side safety lay. For the sake of Annie!... but he need not consider Annie; he had already done far too well to her!

Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, he found himself once more in his uncle’s library; dark now, except for the candle that Mr Lee held in his hand, and which he set down on the table as he threw himself into a seat. The question that was to be expected came immediately and sternly, as James Gillan also sank into a chair. Oh, if he had been allowed a moment’s breathing-time, it might have been possible for him to decide!

‘Well, sir, I’ve no minutes to waste; I must ask ye for your answer. I’ve heard the woman. What have ye to tell me for yourself?’

Oh, how was it possible, thus taken unprepared, to know in what direction an answer should be framed, to be certain of anything, except that denial was dangerous and that equal danger attended the disclosure of the truth? The nephew murmured with pale, trembling lips that a man must not be judged too severely for the follies of his youth, that he had been brought up to a wandering life, an unsettled education, but that he was willing to repair any harm that he had done. His uncle caught up the words, almost before he had completed them, with another question that came faster than the first.

‘Oh! ah! Follies. Follies. I’ve not a doubt of it. But folly is a word that may mean an inch or may mean an ell. I have to ask you, sir, and I charge you to tell me honestly, to what extent has your folly, as you call it, gone?’ And then, as no answer came, he proceeded very slowly, with eyes and lips that were fixed and resolute.

‘There’s some folly, sir, that is easily bought and paid for. It can be forgotten, and no harm is done. There is other folly that clings to a man through life, and takes away from him every chance of raising himself. A low match, sir, that’s what can’t ever be got over. I’ve had reason to know for myself that marriage is a serious thing. I should like to ask ye, nephy Gillan, if you’re inclined to tell the truth, if the folly ye speak of has gone as far as that? For if it has, I consider ye a ruined man. I tell ye candidly before ye answer me!’

It was too much. James Gillan sprang suddenly to his feet, with a mind no longer in doubt, nor a manner that was wavering, and poured out his words on each other, fast and faster, as if he were striving to thrust inward shame aside. ‘Why, sir,’ he cried out. ‘I hope you don’t suspect me of binding myself so seriously without any reference to yourself, at the very time when I had come down to this neighbourhood with the intention of knowing you and being close to you! I have only to tell you of some foolish trifling which perhaps went further than I had intended it to do, but for which I am willing to pay any sum that may be demanded in order to satisfy the woman and the girl.... And now, sir, that I have, as I hope, explained myself, I must ask for the decision that you have promised me. These events may, I hope, be explained and cleared away. But what must I do meanwhile? Where shall I go?’

‘If you ask me the question,’ said Mr Lee, in a low voice and very slowly, ‘I think I shall be able to tell you, sir, where you may go!’

He spoke with composure, but he kept pushing back his chair so as to be further from that on which his nephew sat—the young man, who sat looking at him, with his eyelids more raised than usual—the charming glance few were able to resist. Mr Lee kept his eyes on his face as if he were fascinated, with the same slow, steady movement still pushing back his chair, till the side of it grated against the corner of the table, and, as if the jar roused him, he sprang up to his feet. In another instant his words burst forth with vehemence, the rush of a torrent that could no longer be restrained.