ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE
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.
‘Ah, scoundrel, hypocrite, I have let ye have your tongue that ye might
have leave eno’ to convict yourself! So ye call it a foolish trifle to
’tice a young girl from her home, and then to desert her, and leave her
to misery! Why, sir, I _married_ when I didn’t want to marry, because
the lass believed as I’d made love to her, and ye come and boast to my
face of the girl as ye have ruined, and ask me what ye’re to do and
where to go. By the Lord that looks down upon ye and such like vermin,
I think that I’m able to tell ye where to go. Ye may go to the devil,
sir, your most fit companion, and his home, which is surely the fittest
place for ye!’
He spoke, and at the same instant he advanced upon his nephew, with
clenched hands, a vein-swollen forehead, and eyes darting from his
head; and, as if pressed back by force, though no hand was laid upon
him, James Gillan found himself retreating from the room. Shattered,
overwhelmed, as one suffocated by nightmare, he heard his uncle roar to
the servants to bring him his hat and coat, and, with that vision of
fury still pressing on behind him, he was forced from the front-door,
and out into the streets. It was all a dream .... there before him lay
the valley .... a heavy pall of darkness, with innumerable points
of light .... the night-wind was rushing, his brain rushed in its
company, he could not remember what he should have said or done. Oh! he
could not go back, there was no use in confession, he could never
redeem his reputation now!
Wild sensations tossed, surged in him, as he staggered along without
knowing where he went, as if all that was evil in him had risen,
overpowered him, and was holding carousal, and high festival. He would
go down to Annie, the siren who had ruined him, and seize her in her
beauty, and tear her limb from limb--he could have laughed and sung at
the prospect of his vengeance, and felt inclined to rush or to dance
along the streets. He would go down to the river--ah! to the
river-side--and drink with some old companions before he went on to
her; he would be merry, would be warm and bright enough before he
started on his dark walk through the night. The streets were strange
.... the red sky on his left hand, on which were the darkness, the
innumerable points of light .... the few lamps at intervals on the
other side of the way .... the black dog whom he pushed with his feet,
and who started off into the road. He went down the hill .... he would
get to the river-side, though his brain was whirling as in delirium ...
he could see Annie, hear her, could grasp her with his hands, although
he was certain that she was miles away. He went always onwards ....
no one saw him in the darkness .... the red lights were dancing, as if
they laughed at him.
Is it possible that there are mysterious communications of which we in
our ignorance are not aware, electric forces that can reach from
distant places, and summon us by unconscious magnetism? Annie did not
know, never realised what happened; but she remembered afterwards that
she found herself forced to leave her bed, that she rose from where
they had laid her, slipped by her sleeping watchers, and passed through
the cottage, and out into the night. It seemed to her that her lover’s
voice was calling, that his arms were stretching out to her from far
away, that she was summoned to protect him from some immediate danger,
from which only her presence could save him. She passed through the
sleeping village, and crossed the railway lines, and found herself by
the river, on the path leading to the town, with the lights of the city
before her on the hill and in the valley, and the river flowing in pale
course through the night. She could remember these things afterwards,
but not what she had thought, except that her mind was delirious,
feverish, that she was haunted by some agony that she would be too
late, and kept crying out that the distance was long, and that she was
too weak to run. And yet the lights became closer by degrees--she could
see them burning beneath the bridge that crossed the water--could
see the lamps at intervals on the other side of the river, and the
quivering streams of light that ran down into the depths. At her side
were the foundry-buildings .... and there, beneath the foundry arch,
and the lamp that hung in it, was a black, strange swarm of men ....
she could hear their voices, which came confusedly through the noise of
the rush of the lock, and the silence of the night .... She drew close,
closer, could hear the words they said .... that ‘he must have been
drinking, by what some folk had seen’ .... could see them bend over
something that lay upon the ground .... could distinguish the
countenance of a villager, and by him her brother’s face. And then, all
at once, as the crowd made way for her, her senses came back with a
rush, and she understood it all .... the night-time, the staring eyes,
her own loose dress, streaming hair, the amazement of the by-standers
.... on the ground, her husband’s face .... For one instant she saw,
and then everything forsook her, she could hear herself scream ....
then her limbs gave way, and she fell.
And, as she fell, sinking, as it seemed, in unfathomable darkness,
scarcely conscious of the arms put out for her support, she could hear
a voice at her ear, speaking low and clearly, with a sound as of words
that we hear even through our dreams. It seemed to be speaking of her,
to be explaining who she was, to tear from her misery the last
poor veil away. She heard the words; and then, as if nothing further
could be borne, her consciousness deserted her and she knew no more.
‘_This is Annie, Jenny Salter’s daughter, who lives by the Thackbusk!_’