After long Years.
Ryan stood in the spot where Maxwell had left him until the riders were
all gone—until the last red coat, the last groom, the last whipper-in,
had disappeared from view; then, like a man rousing him from a dream, he
moved slowly away, and took the hill-path towards Durrow.
Most men have some sense of honour—some point where, if you cut down
deep enough, blood will spout out; and a woman’s virtue was that
sensitive place in Timothy Ryan.
To him it seemed that a woman should be pure as snow—that for her fame
to be breathed on was for it to be sullied. He had his own ideal of what
the sex should be: and that ideal was very lofty and very beautiful.
Pretty well he knew what men were; he knew more of their bad than of
their good, perhaps; but women!
The angels were not purer or more holy than the generality of women, in
Ryan’s estimation; and one of the women whom he had loved, honoured, and
adored, for many a year past, was his own sister, of whom Maxwell had
asserted such things as made his very heart stand still.
But he did not believe it—he would not believe it unless her own lips
condemned her. While he walked across the hills he kept saying this to
himself, and then he would hurry on for a few steps, only again to stop
and linger—linger by the way.
He sat down on blocks of granite, and pulled the grass and heather up by
the roots, while he thought the matter over, till he went almost mad.
His own life had not been peculiarly honest or honourable. He had done
many a dirty trick; he had helped Maxwell Drewitt to serve many a man a
mean turn; he had not been scrupulous in the way of business; he had
lent a hand at forging the codicil; he had given, or, rather, allowed
Maxwell to take the second will.
He had not been at all nice as to what filth he put his hand into, and
he had not felt many qualms of conscience in his life; but now, behold,
there was a spot on his sister’s robe, and he could not bear it; could
not endure to think she had deceived him and her husband, and—and
everybody, thought the poor fellow.
“I will not believe it,” he ended. “I will go on; I will ask her about
the matter, and then I will return to Kincorth and cram his words down
his lying throat if there were a hundred people with him; for I will not
believe Jenny could be bad—I will not—I will not.”
It was easy enough to say this—easy enough to repeat the words over and
over, over and over again—but, alas! the more he repeated them the less
he believed them; the more surely conviction stole over his heart that
Jenny had once fallen from her high estate; that Jenny was not pure, not
innocent, not what he had fondly imagined his sister, and Connor’s wife,
and the mother of her children, to be—a woman as much above fear as
beyond reproach.
Onwards towards Durrow, with the mountains to his right hand and the
Atlantic to his left. But Ryan never looked either to right or left;
never looked, that is, noticing the hills or the sea. His heart was full
to bursting. He had been a bad man, and an unscrupulous, and now the
hour of reckoning was at hand. His health was ruined by drinking, his
nerves were shattered, he had been unhinged by hearing of Mrs. Drewitt’s
death, and now it seemed to him as though sorrows were multiplying upon
him, while he paused at intervals, and asked himself—
“What if it be true—what if he did not speak falsely after all?”
Mrs. Connor was alone, and sitting at work in one of the upper rooms,
when her brother entered. He was a frequent visitor, so Jenny did not
attach any importance to his coming till he had been seated for a few
minutes, when, noticing the anxious, troubled expression of his face,
she asked him what was the matter, whether anything was amiss.
“There is a good deal amiss, Jenny, that I want to talk with you about.
Is Dennis out?”
“Yes, he has gone to Duranmore, I think. What is wrong, Timothy? Can I
be of any use to you? Is it money? Sure Dennis is always willing to lend
to you when he has it. What is wrong? Tell me.”
She had laid down her work, and was close beside him. She was a woman
who never could grow old—who had such gentle, clinging ways, such
loving, winning manners, that she was always to Ryan the young sister,
the sweet Jenny whom he had once trembled might go off with Maxwell.
Once! what was that dread to this?
“It is not money, Jenny,” he answered. “I wish to God it were! I have
got many a thing to say to you. Go back to your chair, dear, and sit
down. Let me see, where was I?”
“Going to tell me about this trouble that has come to you,” she said. It
never struck her it could be any trouble relating to her; she had been
safe for so long. There were none alive that knew her secret who would
reveal it; through the years it had never oozed out, and she did not
imagine that after long years her sin could be brought to her
remembrance by any human being.
“I have bad news, Jenny,” he began, after a moment’s hesitation. She sat
with her hands folded together in her lap, her eyes fixed on his face,
her lips a little parted, and he felt he could not plunge into _that_
question without leading up to it in some indirect manner. “I have bad
news. Mrs. Drewitt is dead!”
“Dead!” Mrs. Connor repeated, and the slight colour faded out of her
cheeks, and her eyes brimmed full of tears. “I am very sorry to hear it.
She was a nice lady.”
“And hardly done by.”
“I am afraid she was. My heart was sore for her that night she came here
after Mr. Drewitt’s funeral. How did you hear about it, Timothy? did Mr.
Brian write to Mr. Maxwell?”
“Mr. Brian will never write to Mr. Maxwell, and small blame to him for
it. No, it was Mr. Murphy wrote to me, whatever possessed him—Murphy
that used to be with Sheen, I mean, who was so sweet on you. He’s a
great man now, I believe. Somebody told me he was making two or three
thousand a-year; but maybe it is not true.”
“She did not stay long after Mr. Harold. I wonder if it was the fretting
killed her.”
“I don’t know, I am sure—likely as not, for she worshipped the ground he
walked on. He was a fine lad.”
“He was,” answered Jenny, simply; “but I was fondest of Mr. Brian.”
“Did you ever see anybody Harold favoured?” asked Ryan, suddenly.
“Never. Mr. Pryor always said he was the image of his cousin. I never
could see it, though.”
“Mr. Pryor was right; but there is another person who is more like
Harold than his cousin ever was; that is, another person who must have
been like Harold when he was Harold’s age.”
“Who is that?”
“Mr. Campnell, the young gentleman who was at Kincorth last autumn.”
“I never saw him.” But the colour came back into her cheek, and her eyes
drooped under the look of eager, anxious inquiry her brother fixed upon
her.
“Say that again, Jenny; say you never saw him.”
“I never saw him,” she repeated.
“Is it the truth you are telling me, or is it a lie?” He rose in his
suspense and misery, and stood directly facing her.
“Why should I tell you a lie about the matter?” she asked. “What can Mr.
Campnell be to me that I should fear to speak the truth? I never set
eyes on him.”
“And yet Maxwell Drewitt told me, not two hours ago, you were his
mother?”
The work she had taken up again dropped from her fingers; she lifted her
face to her brother’s with a cry of helpless despair. Against any other
testimony she might have maintained her innocence; but it was useless to
attempt any further denial. Against him—false first and last—false as
cruel—deceitful as relentless—there was no appeal.
“You need not speak, Jenny,” he said; “you need not rack your brain to
think what other falsehood you can coin to try and deceive me. I see it
is all true. Oh! Jenny, Jenny.”
She did not say a word—she could not say a word—she was so stunned, so
confused, so wretched, that she could do nothing but sit and wonder if
the misery of the past would all have to be endured over again; if she
had not suffered enough then, that this fresh disgrace was come to
her—that this blow had been dealt to her by _him_.
“I suppose this was the reason you would not marry for so long. I
suppose this was what made you refuse offer after offer, and live on
single till I’m sure I thought you never were going to be a wife at all.
But though you deceived me, Jenny, I hope you did not deceive him. I
hope you never let any honest man take you as you were, ignorantly.”
She put out her hands, and there came such a look of horror into her
white face as made Ryan turn round to see what could have caused it.
Behind him stood Connor, who, having heard the last part of his
brother-in-law’s sentence, asked hoarsely what they were talking
about—what it all meant.
“It means, I ought never to have married you, Dennis,” she broke out
passionately. “It means, I am all he says, and worse. It means, that
years, and years, and years ago I sinned, and that now my sin has found
me out.”
“What is it?” he repeated. “I do not understand it at all. Are you both
mad? What is it, Tim? Tell me what she says.”
“She says she is not what we both took her to be,” answered Ryan,
bitterly. “She confesses—that—that boy Maxwell Drewitt has ‘adopted’ is
her son, and his son, and their son.”
“And God knows, Dennis, that many a time I would have given anything to
have been able to tell you this—that when you have been telling me how
happy—” the poor creature’s voice was choked with sobs—“how happy you
were, I felt my heart turn cold, thinking about my fault. I did not want
to marry you, Dennis; you know I didn’t. And I have been true and
faithful to you since; and I was so young, and I am the mother of your
children, and you have had every thought of my heart, and every bit of
my love, since ever you took me home. Won’t you forgive, Dennis?—sure
you couldn’t cast me off?”
She stretched out her arms towards him, but he made no step forward to
take her to him. He averted his face that he might not look at the woman
who had deceived him; who had lain in his bosom, and lived with him
through the years and borne him children, knowing what she knew about
herself all the time.
“Dennis!” and she was going to fling herself at his feet, but her
brother prevented her.
“Connor,” he said, holding her back, and standing resolutely between
them, “I don’t ask you—I can’t ask you to keep her. She has brought
shame and disgrace to both of us. She is no more to you now than if she
had never been your wife; but she is my own sister just the same as
ever; so I will e’en take her with me;” and suiting the action to the
word, Ryan drew her arm within his and led her, spite of her struggles
and remonstrances towards the door.
It was stern justice, stern and sharp, and Jenny rebelled against it.
“Let me go back to him,” she said; “don’t try to take me from him, Tim.
He is not that hard—he will listen to me, and forgive me.”
They had reached the door by this time, and one of her children, her
youngest, came running along the passage, calling out “Mammy—Mammy.”
At the words she fought to free herself, and succeeding, caught the
little fellow to her heart and covered his face with kisses.
Very resolutely, Ryan took the boy from her and setting him down, said—
“Run away, Johnny, and play yourself; run away, you have no mother now;”
and he drew his sister’s arm in his once more and walked on towards the
head of the staircase.
This time Jenny made no effort to free herself; no struggle to return.
With the full sense of her dishonour brought home by that one solitary
sentence, she staggered forward, weeping bitter tears for her shame and
their disgrace.
Weeping for a stain that the floods of Niagara could not have washed
away; for hearts broken; for sin discovered; for confidence abused; for
love betrayed!
So they descended the stairs together; she crying audibly; he weeping
tears not to be noticed of men, but seen of God—tears not of brine from
his eyes, but of blood from his heart.
So, clasping her hand closer and tighter, he guided her down step by
step: he who had never forsaken her in joy or in sorrow—who was true to
her in bad report as in good—who, reckless and unscrupulous and
unprincipled though he might be in most things—who, fallen though he
knew her to be, was her faithful brother still.
Step by step they descended that broad staircase; but when they reached
the bottom, a hoarse voice called after them to stop; and Connor,
running down the flight, laid his hand on Jenny’s shoulder.
“Give me my wife!” he said; “she has been a good wife to me, and you
shall not take her from me. Jenny, haven’t you loved me? haven’t you
been true to me since we came together? Only say that, and I won’t mind
the rest. I’ll try to forget it, Jenny—I’ll think it was a bad dream.
There—there—darling; don’t fret. I was stunned like for the minute; but
I could not have let you go; no, I couldn’t, dear, I couldn’t.”
Her arms were about his neck; her head was resting on his shoulder; her
tears were falling like rain; and she was striving to articulate some
words of thankfulness and blessing, when there was a trampling over the
ground outside of many horses’ hoofs, and of many men’s feet; then a
loud knocking; and then followed a scene of indescribable confusion.
“It was nearer to bring him here than take him to Kincorth. Shall we
carry him upstairs? He is not dead, though he is badly hurt. Who is it,
d’ye say? It is Mr. Drewitt; who else? He was thrown just on the other
side Durrow River; and the chesnut mare is killed.”
“God help us!” exclaimed Connor.
“And we have sent for the doctor; and there’s a heap of gentlemen
outside there; and shall we take him upstairs, or will you make him up a
bed down here? That would be best, if you could do it.”
“Where is he hurt?”
“Sorra a one of me knows,” answered the man addressed; “he groaned that
bad at first, I am sure you might have heard him up here; but he’s
fainted now, I think. Likely as not he won’t get over it.”
By this time several of the gentlemen had alighted and entered the
house. From them Connor learned the particulars of the accident.
“The rest are gone after the fox,” said Mr. Frost; “but I have have had
enough hunting for to-day; and so I think have my friends here. I never
was more upset in my life.”
Whereupon Mr. Connor suggested that a little whiskey might not be
unacceptable; or “some wine,” he added. “Mr. Pryor’s Madeira is very
good, I’m told.”
“Let us have two or three bottles up, then. I should like to hear the
doctor’s opinion of Mr. Drewitt. I have been thinking since, that we
ought perhaps to have taken him to Kincorth; for I suspect he won’t be
able to move from here for many and many a day—unless, indeed, he is
moved away in his coffin.”
“Well, sir, we must only do our best for him, if he does stay,” answered
Connor, who could not, at such a time, remember his own injuries, or
nurse his own anger.
Sickness, like death, is a great soother of human passions; and Maxwell
Drewitt’s state was for a long time sufficiently critical to render it
doubtful whether he should ever leave Durrow again, except for his
grave.
Day followed day—week succeeded to week—and month to month—but still
Maxwell was unable to leave his bed. What he thought of, as he lay
there, weak and faint and helpless, who can tell?—not even Jenny could
imagine—though, judging by the words he let fall in his delirium, his
reveries could scarcely, during convalescence, have been pleasant.
All through that illness he was nursed and tended by the people he had
injured—by Ryan and Connor and Jenny; and that he ever recovered
sufficiently to leave Durrow and return to Kincorth, was owing more to
their care and attention than to any other cause.
But Maxwell was not grateful for their kindness. I think he hated them
all bitterly for thus heaping coals of fire upon his head. I believe he
could have struck Ryan when he told him how he had kept forwarding money
to Mr. Campnell, at that gentleman’s request, without waiting for Mr.
Drewitt’s recovery, or troubling him on the subject till he should
regain his strength.
“And in a letter I had from him the other day,” proceeded the lawyer,
“he says he wishes you would reconsider your decision and purchase him a
commission, as he should prefer a soldier’s life to any other.”
“If he choose a soldier’s life he must go as a private, and never look
for a shilling from me,” retorted Mr. Drewitt. “The boy is a fool, and
he must be brought to his senses.”