Poor Jenny.
It was on a Monday that Maxwell Drewitt proposed to Lady Emmeline, and
on the following Friday he was coming along the road leading from
Eversbeg to Duranmore, when he met a palefaced, large-eyed girl, who
told him she wanted to speak to him.
“Not now, Jenny,” he said. “I am going up to a party at Kincorth. Wait
for a day or two.”
“If I wait any longer I shall die,” she answered. “I must speak to you.
Timothy is away, and I have been watching for you all the afternoon. Let
me ask you something now, and then go to your party if you like.”
“We cannot stand talking on the road here, Jenny,” he answered, “but I
tell you what,” he added, seeing the look of despair in her poor tearful
eyes: “meet me at twelve, in the summer-house at the top of the fall
(you know the summer-house). I will be there.”
“Upon your honour?” she asked.
“Upon my soul,” he replied, and the pair parted. She walked forward to
Mrs. Connor’s, and he went on to Kincorth.
It was a quiet party, given in honour of Maxwell’s engagement. The
Drewitts did not think well of the match, and for that reason they were,
perhaps, a little over-anxious to be cordial to Lady Emmeline.
It was a good thing for Maxwell, Mr. and Mrs. Drewitt agreed; and yet
Mrs. Drewitt knew a younger woman would have appeared to her better.
Such a union was likely to give Maxwell all he had lost through his
father’s unlucky marriage, but still it seemed unnatural to see so young
a man selling himself for money.
Nevertheless, the Drewitts were bound to be pleased: the head of the
family was expected to hold out the right hand of fellowship to Lady
Emmeline, and Mr. and Mrs. Drewitt had accordingly driven over to
Cragantlet and invited the widow to a very quiet party in honour of the
event.
On account of Lady Emmeline’s bereavement dancing would have been
improper, but, looking towards her impending marriage, music was
permissible.
It was a musical party therefore—that is, dinner and music. Only very
intimate friends on both sides were invited, such as the Munks and
Marsdens and Hickmans and Dolf Vervensoe, who began at once to pay
marked attentions to Laura Munks, which attentions caused the heart of
her honourable mother to leap for joy.
Miss Macpherson came with the Munks. Mrs. Drewitt had asked her to come,
greatly on account of her musical attainments, which would, that poor
lady hoped, cause the evening to go off all the more pleasantly.
Lady Emmeline was in great force: she put on her deepest mourning, and
flourished her widest hem-stitched pocket-handkerchief. She kissed Mrs.
Drewitt and Wilhelmina, and Master Brian and Miss Geraldine, and pressed
Mr. Drewitt’s hand with emotion.
And Mr. Drewitt pressed Lady Emmeline’s, and the pair had a little
private conversation in the embrasure of one of the drawing-room
windows; and Mr. Drewitt wept, and Lady Emmeline wept, and the two
exchanged sentiments of regard and vows of eternal friendship.
To do the poetess justice, she did not care one straw about money. Give
her Maxwell, and she was indifferent to filthy lucre. Had he owned
Kincorth fifty times over she could not have been fonder of him. It is
pitiful to think how far good looks go with women: how much better she
liked this handsome young fellow than she had ever cared for her
far-honester husband.
Well-a-day, well-a-day! so the world goes, and so the world will go till
the Millennium.
Of all the company, Maxwell himself was, I think, the most
uncomfortable.
A man takes kindly enough to having honours thrust upon him, but he
feels awkward when a select party is invited to see the process.
Besides, though he loved money he hated marriage; and, above all, was
there not a poor soft-hearted little girl crying her eyes out for his
sake?
Poor child! poor Jenny! She was in his memory all that evening. He could
not see Lady Emmeline for thinking of her when the widow spoke; and as
for Miss Macpherson, there were some people whom Maxwell always
detested, and Miss Macpherson was one of them; for this was part of the
song that terrible Scotchwoman elected to sing with a pathos utterly
indescribable, while Maxwell Drewitt stood beside his aunt, digging his
nails into his flesh, and cursing the poet who wrote the words and the
woman who sung them with all his heart and soul and strength.
Was ever a more mournful song penned, reader, than that from which Miss
Macpherson selected four sorrowful verses? Four verses, sorrowful and
beautiful. Here they are:—
“My head is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break;
I’m wearin’ aff my feet, Willie,
I’m dyin’ for your sake:
Oh! lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand upon my head;
Oh! say ye’ll think on me, Willie,
When I am cold and dead.
“It’s vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will;
But let me rest upon your breast,
To sab and greet my fill;
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never may see mair.
“I’m weary o’ this warld, Willie,
And sick wi’ all I see;
I canna live as I hae lived,
Or be as I should be;
But fauld into your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek
Ye said was red lang syne.
“The lav’rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Aboun the clay cauld deid;
And this green turf we’re sittin’ on,
Wi’ dewdrops shimmerin’ sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.”[A]
Footnote A:
The whole of this ballad is to be found in a curious collection of
Scotch songs entitled “Whistle Binkie.” The book is somewhat rare, and
I do not chance to have it by me at the moment; but I believe the
verses quoted above were written by Motherwell; and I know that they,
as well as the “King’s Ride,” referred to on page 215 (the name of the
author of which I am unable to learn), have recently been most
charmingly set to music by Miss Elizabeth Philp.
After the manner of all Scotch poems, the original was of great length.
If Maxwell had heard the whole of it I think he would have sacrificed
Miss Macpherson in his uncle’s drawing-room.
How long that evening seemed! How unendurable! How intolerable it was to
listen to the chitter-chatter of a dozen female tongues! How plainly he
could see the rouge on Lady Emmeline’s cheeks! How he hated the
affectation of her manners! How sick the little flutter she pretended to
feel made him! How he wished to heaven he could break Dolf Vervensoe’s
head for his sly allusions, for his meaning looks!
Miss Macpherson sang, and Mrs. Drewitt sang, and Laura Munks sang, and
Lady Emmeline was induced to “join in.”
Then they had tea handed round, and the card-tables were brought out,
and the old stagers played whist, while the young people flirted, and
Lady Emmeline sat talking demurely to Mr. Drewitt, and Maxwell walked
from window to window looking forth at the view on which the moon was
just rising. It must be getting on for twelve he knew by that, and
thinking of Jenny, he went across to Lady Emmeline, and after leaning
over the back of her chair and whispering a few compliments in her ear,
reminded her how late it was getting.
“You will come with me as far as Eversbeg,” she suggested; but Maxwell
told her he thought of remaining at Kincorth for the night, upon which
she rose to go.
“Time has passed so pleasantly, Mrs. Drewitt,” said Lady Emmeline, “that
I had not the least idea of the hour.” And the widow, after a tender
farewell of the Drewitt family, swept down to her carriage, attended by
Maxwell and his uncle.
Her departure was the signal for the remainder of the party to disperse;
and accordingly, with a great clattering of horses’ hoofs, and banging
to of carriage doors, and putting up of carriage steps, the guests drove
off, and left Kincorth quiet and lonely in the moonlight.
Then Maxwell bade Mrs. Drewitt good-night, and took his hat, spite of
Mr. Drewitt’s entreaties for him to stay.
“Thank you, no,” answered Maxwell, “I cannot remain. I told Lady
Emmeline I thought I should, but I forgot then that a man said he would
come to me to-morrow morning at seven about some stock, and I should not
care to have to walk over from here so early as all that comes to.
Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, Maxwell, and I wish you every happiness. I think you have
made a most prudent choice,” finished Mr. Drewitt, wringing his nephew’s
hand; which piece of commendation elicited the remark, “D—n my choice
and your thoughts too,” from Maxwell, as he walked down the drive.
When he had got well among the trees he left the gravelled walk, and
made his way through the plantations to the glen mentioned in an early
chapter.
Many a time he and Jenny had met in that glen during the last two years,
for it was a lonely place where strangers were sure never to intrude,
and where the family rarely penetrated. At the very top of the glen
stood the ruined summer-house, going fast to wreck and decay. The roof
let in the wet, the floor was damp and grass-grown, the seats were
broken and crazy. It was nearly a mile away from the mansion, and as
solitary and deserted a spot for a meeting of the kind as can well be
imagined.
As he climbed up the steep path which led to it from the glen, Maxwell,
looking at the summer-house perched on the very top of the waterfall,
saw a woman leaning against the rustic pillars that formed the entrance.
“You are late,” she said; “I thought you were not going to come;” and
she dropped back the shawl she had put over her head, and the white sad
face was lifted appealingly to his in the moonlight.
“Have I ever disappointed you, Jenny?” he asked, and he kissed her cold
lips while the girl clung to him in a kind of passionate despair.
“They told me you were going to be married,” she whispered; “it is not
true? tell me it is not true.”
If there had been any use in telling her a lie he would have done it;
but he knew it must come to this sooner or later, and so he held his
peace, and turned aside his head.
“Why don’t you look at me?” she cried; “why don’t you answer?” And then,
in her extremity, she fell on her knees before him, and prayed him say
it was false, it was not true.
He lifted her from the ground, and took her in his arms, and held her to
his heart, and kissed her over and over again; but still he said
nothing, while she kept moaning out—
“It’s not true! You never could be so fond of me, and marry another
woman.”
“If I were married to twenty women I could never be so fond of one of
them as I am of you,” he answered.
“But you are not going to be married? Say it was an untruth they told
me—say so, for God’s sake!”
“What can it matter, Jenny?” he replied. “I will never love any one as I
love you. I swear that.”
“But you promised to marry _me_!” Jenny broke out, tearing herself from
his embrace, and facing him as he stood silent and pale in the
moonlight. “You swore that to me. You said whenever you had money enough
you would marry me, and that then, when we were married, Timothy would
soon come round. You did, you know you did! and if it was a lie, God
pardon you, Maxwell Drewitt, and God help me!”
She sank to the earth once more, not kneeling this time, but crouching,
with her hands covering her face, with her head bent forward on her lap,
crying—crying, oh! so terribly.
And the moonlight lay on tree and ocean and field—on Duranmore down by
the shore, on the great mountains, and the smaller hills.
“You will marry me, Maxwell?” she sobbed at last, and she seized his
hands in hers, and covered them with tears and kisses. “You cannot mean
to desert me after all. You cannot leave me to face the world’s scorn. I
would do my best to please you. I would never ask to go out with you to
any place, or to be your equal, or to know your concerns. Only marry me,
for the love of God!”
“I told you before,” he answered huskily, “that I can never love any
woman but you; and as long as I love you, what does it matter whether I
am married or single?”
“Maybe it does not matter to you,” she said; “but to me—to me——”
“You will marry somebody else, Jenny, and look back upon all this as a
foolish dream—a foolish happy dream.”
“It’s a dream that’s mighty like reality,” she answered. “I wish it was
a dream!” went on the girl, passionately. “I wish that I could wake now
and know that all that has passed was only a dream! If I could go back
to what I was when I first met you, I’d die happy. I wouldn’t care that
this was my last night on earth.”
“Jenny—Jenny!” he remonstrated.
“I’m thinking that the water down by there looks mighty quiet,” she
continued, looking with her great sorrowful eyes away to the sea. “If I
could get anybody to row me out far enough that I’d never come ashore,
I’d drown myself. Timothy would be sorry, but he would not be half as
sorry as he will be if I don’t do it.”
Maxwell could not bear this. He made her get up, and drew her back to
the firmest of the seats, and sat down beside her, and laid the poor
tired head on his breast and tried to comfort her. There had been a time
when his lightest caress made Jenny’s heart leap with joy; but nothing
he could say or do would comfort her now. “Marry me, marry me!” she kept
crying, and she twined her arms round his neck and told him how their
sin had found them out; how it was because she knew she could keep their
secret no longer that she wanted him to save her from shame.
For a minute, Maxwell sat stunned; a sickening remorse came over him.
Her child!—and she was little more than a child when he first met her.
Her child!—Maxwell knew now the reason of her pale thin cheeks, of her
unusual importunity, of her longing look towards the quiet sea.
“Oh! Jenny, Jenny, I wish we had never seen one another,” he cried out
at last; “I wish I had never looked at your pretty face, my darling!”
“And it’s I that wish I had never seen you!” she answered, “or that I
had died before this ever came to pass; before I ever was the bad girl I
have been, and brought trouble and disgrace on the one that knew you
better than I did. What are you going to do now?” she demanded, with a
sudden access of indignation. “Are you going to marry me or leave
me?—going to desert me or shelter me from the storm? You will marry me,
Maxwell, won’t you? Now that you know all, you will not forsake me?”
And she put her “cheek against his cheek,” and took his hand and held it
upon her heart, while she begged him to have mercy, while she craved him
to have pity, in tones that Maxwell Drewitt remembered at his dying
hour.
But she did not know with whom she had to deal. The very reason she
assigned would have been powerful enough to prevent Maxwell fulfilling
his promise. Should the finger of scorn be pointed at him?—should the
purity of his wife be questioned? He would as soon have thought of
marrying the vilest of women as of mating with Jenny now. And he had
brought her to this, with his lying words, with his false tongue, with
his fair promises! He had found her young and guileless and loving, and
she was sitting now with the moonlight streaming on her pale face,
ruined and betrayed. That was a pleasant memory for him when “the door
of the house came to be shut,” when the noise of the outer world sounded
no longer in his ears, when there was no future of life stretching out
before him—but only silence, and sickness, and recollection in the
darkened chamber, in the lonely room.
“Would he marry her?”
No. But Maxwell was at immense pains to explain why he could not do so:
how he was very, very poor; how he was only marrying Lady Emmeline for
her money; how he would always spare enough for Jenny; how, though
another woman might own his name, no one but Jenny should own his heart.
He tried to work upon her feelings; he tried to get her to be
self-sacrificing for the sake of the love she bore him. “You would not
like to see me struggling for bread all my days?” he finished: “you
would not like to ruin me and keep me poor till the end of my life?”
“You ought to have thought about that before you ruined me,” she
answered. “You talk to me as if money could give me back what I have
lost, when I would cheerfully beg my bread from door to door if only I
could be what I once was; if I only could!”
“But, Jenny,” he answered, “why should you be ruined at all? There’s a
man who would marry you to-morrow—Connor. Marry him, and then——”
He stopped in his sentence, for the girl rose up at his words and looked
him in the face. She unwound his arm from about her, she put his hand
away from her face, she lifted her head from his shoulder and stood in
the moonlight staring at the man she loved with an incredulous surprise.
“And it’s that you want me to do?” she said. “And it’s your child you
would have me pass off on him as his?—and that’s the way you think
you’ll get rid of me? But you’re mistaken; you’re wrong this time. I’ll
tell Timothy; I’ll tell Lady Emmeline; I’ll tell your uncle, and I’ll
see if there isn’t one of them will have me righted. Marry Dennis! Oh!
Father of Heaven, what is this at all, at all?” and she rushed out of
the summer-house and down the glen, sobbing as she went.
He picked up her shawl and followed her. It did not take much pleading
on his part to make her promise that she would not fulfil her
threat—that she would not go and blazon her wrongs about.
She blazed up into a passion one moment, but was calm the next.
“I will do well for you, Maxwell,” she said, “though you have done ill
for me. I will keep your secret, if it kill me. I will be faithful to
you, though you have been false to me. I won’t have any money; but I
won’t drown myself: I promise you, and I don’t break my word. Let me
pass you. Don’t kiss me again—don’t; you belong to another woman now,
and I hope—I do hope she will make you as happy as I would have tried to
do!”
“I cannot let you go, Jenny,” he said. “I love you, and you only,
still.” And he kissed her as he never kissed another on earth, with
passionate tenderness, with a hungry affection, with a despairing
remorse—kissed her while the tears ran down her white cheeks, and the
stream trickled at their feet, and the roar of the waterfall sounded in
their ears, and the trees stirred their branches in the light wind which
went rustling and murmuring among the trees.
Then he wrapped the shawl which she wore for disguise, like the country
people, gently about her, and pulled it over her head. And thus they
parted, so far as meeting and loving and trusting was concerned, for
ever.
It is not in all cases parting to be separated from those we love by
absence or death, by distance or the grave.
There are worse partings than those on the deck of the outward-bound
ship, or by the dying beds of the dear ones we have walked with through
years—worse partings, between two who may yet hear each other’s voices,
and touch each other’s hands, and look in each other’s faces, day after
day.