I SPEAK PLAINLY TO UNCLE BRYAN.
The paper which I held in my hand became blurred in my sight, and for a
few moments the only thing that was clear to me was that Jessie was
lost to me, and that all possible happiness had gone out of my life.
There was no mistaking the meaning of Jessie's letter to my mother. It
was intended to snap at once and for ever the bonds which united us.
She had set herself free from her miserable thraldom, and she was not
to be wooed back. 'It will be useless, if you find where I am,
endeavouring to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than
enter the house again.' I heard her speak these words in sharp
incisive tones, and I knew too well that she was not to be turned from
her purpose. All was over between us, and this day, which I had fondly
imagined was to be the happiest in our lives, had sealed the
destruction of all my hopes.
Two trivial circumstances recalled me to the realities of the scene.
One was the ticking of the watch which I had intended as a birthday
present for Jessie; the other was a slight rustling of paper. I had
observed, when uncle Bryan entered the room with the letter for my
mother, that he held another paper in his hand, which must have been
addressed to himself. It was the rustling of this paper which now
attracted my attention. Uncle Bryan had opened it, and was reading it.
He could have read but a very few lines when a ghastly pallor
overspread his features, and his hands trembled from excess of
agitation. Every muscle in his face was quivering, and even in the
midst of my own suffering these signs of suffering in him did not
escape me. They did not move me to pity; they stirred me rather to a
more bitter resentment against him. He, and he alone, was the cause of
all my misery; he, and he alone, had brought this blight upon my life.
I did not know, until I attempted to move towards him, that my
mother's arms were round me. I had no distinct intention of raising my
hand against him, but it might have occurred, and my mother feared it
and clung to me convulsively. I released myself from her arms, and I
stood before him, barring the way, for I detected in him a desire to
leave the room unobserved. He gazed at me in a weak uncertain manner;
all his old strength and sternness of character seemed to have
deserted him, and he was suddenly transformed into a weak and worn old
man. That his sorrow-stricken face should have won sympathy from my
mother and Josey West--as I saw clearly it had--I construed into an
additional wrong against myself, committed not by them, but by him. It
inflamed me the more; I felt that my passion must have vent, and that
it was impossible for me to be silent.
'Let me pass.'
I did not hear the words, for his throat was parched, and refused to
give them utterance; but I knew that he had striven to speak them.
'Not till you have heard what I have to say,' was my reply, as I stood
before him.
My mother crept to my side, but I was not to be turned from my
purpose. I could hear and feel the rapid beating of her heart against
my hand, which she had taken in hers and pressed to her bosom, but the
selfish intensity of my own grief made me deaf and blind to everything
else. Uncle Bryan did not answer me; he strove feebly to pass me
again, but I prevented him from doing so. Something in my attitude
caused Josey West to place herself between us.
'I hope you are satisfied,' I said. 'You have driven her from us. What
is the next thing you intend to do?'
I paused for his reply, but he did not speak.
'I intended to ask Jessie to-night to be my wife. I don't know what
her answer would have been, but I think I know what it might have been
but for your systematic cruelty. Will it add to your satisfaction to
know that I had set all my hopes of happiness upon her, and that you
have driven these from my heart, as you have driven her from your
door? I loved her with all my soul. I was not worthy of her; she is
far above me and every one here; but I loved her most truly and
sincerely, and you have stepped between us and parted us for ever.
Does it please you to be assured of this?----Nay, mother, I will
speak. I have been silent until now, out of my love for you, and
because I knew that you had given even him a place in your tender
heart. He has requited you nobly for it. If I had spoken openly before
now, things might have been different, but I held my tongue, like a
coward, and because I had some latent notion that he deserved respect
from me. I think so no longer. On my last birthday,' I continued,
addressing him, 'you gave me certain advice which I believed to be
good; among other things you said that it is seldom a man can look
back upon his life with satisfaction. You drew that from your own
experience. With what kind of satisfaction do you look back upon your
own life? A man with any tenderness for others in his nature would
shrink with horror from the contemplation of such a life as yours. But
perhaps you find it a pleasant task to blight the hopes and happiness
of those who have the misfortune to come in contact with you. Having
no children of your own upon whom you could practise in this way, you
turned your attention to others, and you have succeeded most
thoroughly. You said to me, when I was of age, that I was a man, with
a man's responsibility, and a man's work to do, and you bade me do it
faithfully. I have tried to do it--my mother knows that, and so does
Miss West, I think--in the hope that it would lead to a good result.
But when you addressed those words to me, did you think of yourself,
and the example of your own life? They sounded well, but did you think
of your own responsibility--or did you think that _you_, apart from
all other men in the world, had no responsibility which it behoved you
to look to? You brought Jessie here, a friendless, helpless girl--a
girl whom nobody but you could help loving for the goodness that is in
her. She brought sunshine into this house, which was gloomy enough
without her. She had no mother, no father, no friends, and you were
her only protector. How have you fulfilled your duty towards her?
Shall I answer for you? You have behaved like a tyrant, in whom all
human feeling was deadened. When she strove to love you, you compelled
her, by harsh words and cold looks and repellent acts, to hate you.
She has good cause for her feelings towards you now, for you did your
best to make every hour and every day of her life a misery to her. She
told me herself that she was only happy out of the house; so that you
did your work well. If you saw faults in her which no one else saw,
and which had their birth in your own hard unfeeling nature, what
right had you to torture her in the way you did? She was but a child,
and you are an old man. Why could you not have dealt tenderly and
gently by her? Ask my mother--ask Miss West--ask any of her
friends--if there is anything in her character that might not be
turned to good account? But you could not see it. Lightheartedness and
an innocent flow of spirits are crimes in your eyes. You made her pay
bitterly for the shelter you gave her; you have shown the generosity
of your nature in its fullest light by making her say, after a long
experience of you, that she would starve rather than enter your house
again. When you told us the story of your life, you said you wished me
to hear it because I might learn something from it. I have learnt
something--but not the lesson you wished me to learn. I have learnt
that such a life as yours, such a nature as yours, brings desolation
upon every life and nature within its influence, and that it would be
a happier fate for me to drop down dead this minute than live as you
have lived, a torture to all around you.'
'Chris, Chris!' implored my mother, with streaming eyes, and with a
gesture of entreaty towards uncle Bryan, who sat before me now, with
his head bowed upon his hands. Remember, my dear child, remember!'
'Remember what, mother?' I cried pitilessly. 'That he has robbed me of
all that can make life dear to me--of all that _is_ dear to me? You
should ask me rather to forget when you point to him, whom I would
teach a different lesson if he were not an old man, with one foot in
the grave. Shall I remember that he has no belief in goodness here or
hereafter--that he believes neither in God nor man? Will such
remembrances as these plead in his favour? One thing I will and do
remember--that I owe him money for the food he has given me and you.
But I will pay him to the last farthing, so that nothing may remain
between us but what I owe him for having brought misery into my life.
That is a debt that can never be wiped out. And Jessie will pay him
also; she told me she would. But for that resolve she would not, for a
long time past, have eaten a meal at his expense. Are these the things
you wish me to remember?'
I knew that I was striking him hard with every word I uttered, but I
would not spare him. I ransacked my mind to hurt him.
'And you, mother,' I said pitilessly, do you think you are just to me
in pleading for him, and in disguising the opinion you have of him?
When, knowing that all my hopes were set on Jessie, and that it was
impossible for her and him to live happily in the same house, I
proposed to make a home elsewhere where we could live in happiness
without him, did you show your love for me by saying that we must
never leave him, and that, wherever our home was, he must share it?
When he told us his story, for the purpose, as I now see, of setting
us more and more against Jessie, and I asked you afterwards if you
would like me to look on things as he does, what was your answer? "God
forbid!" you said; "it would take all the sweetness out of your
life."' (Uncle Bryan removed his hand from his eyes at this, and
raised them for one moment to my mother's white face; there was no
reproach in them, but a look of humble grateful affection.) 'In what
was Jessie wrong that she should have been driven from us? In wishing
him to go to church with us? Ask your own heart, mother, for an answer
to that, and remember what occurred on the first Sunday night we were
in this house. If I had known then what I know now, I would have
starved rather than have accepted the shelter of his roof. Remember
how, for days and weeks together, Jessie has been submissive and
tender to him, striving by every means in her power to win his
affection; and remember how her efforts were received and rewarded.
But for him Jessie might have been my wife; you loved her, and she
loved you. How often have you told me that you saw nothing in her but
what was good! I think at one time she would have consented to share
my lot, but that dream is over now. There was an influence strong
enough to turn love into hate, and to poison all our lives. I will
remember that to my dying day, which I hope may not be far off. I have
nothing worth living for. But one thing I am resolved upon--that while
I live, those who love me shall choose between me and him.'
Josey West caught my arm suddenly and sharply.
'Are you mad?' she cried. 'Learn the lesson you want to teach others.
Look at your mother.'
She let go my arm, and stepped swiftly to my mother's side, in time to
save her from falling to the ground. Uncle Bryan made a movement
towards her, but I stood before him, and he shrank back. My mother's
strength had given way, and she had fainted. I supported her in my
arms, while Josey West loosened her dress and bathed her face. She
opened her eyes presently, and, recognising me, pressed me
convulsively to her breast.
'O my child, my child,' she sobbed, 'my heart is almost broken!'
I looked round for uncle Bryan; he was gone.
'What I did,' moaned my mother, 'I did for the best. I prayed and
hoped that time would set all things right. I see now that it was
impossible, and that I was a weak foolish woman. But I loved you, my
darling, and I would shed my heart's blood for you. What sin have I
committed that I should be punished by the loss of my dear child's
love?'
'No, no, mother,' I cried remorsefully, 'you must not say that. You
have not lost it. God forbid that it should ever be so!'
I think she did not hear me, for she slid from my arms and knelt
before me, imploring me with sobs and broken words to forgive her.
Many minutes passed before I succeeded in calming her, and then Josey
West and I assisted her upstairs to her room, to the room which Jessie
had made bright by her innocent devices.
'Jessie will never sleep here again,' I thought, with a choking
sensation in my throat. This was _her_ room, Josey,' I said aloud.
Josey nodded gravely, and whispered to me that my mother must go to
bed, and that she ought to see a doctor. 'I hope she will not have a
fever,' said Josey.
My mother's eyes were wandering around her in a strange way; once or
twice she looked at me as if she did not know me. The simple sound of
my voice, however, recalled her to herself.
'Yes, dear child,' she said, with a smile so sad and sweet as to bring
the tears into my eyes.
'Mother,' I whispered, 'you know what has occurred?'
She considered for a moment or two; I assisted her memory.
'Jessie,' I said.
'I know now,' she replied, with a look of distress. 'Jessie has gone.'
'Will you be strong for my sake, mother?'
'I will do anything you tell me, my darling child,' she said humbly.
'First I will go and send a doctor to you. Then I want to try and find
Jessie.'
'Dear child, do you know where she is?'
'No; and I have no hope of inducing her to return. I know she will
never come back, but I cannot rest without doing something. I shall go
mad if I stop in the house all night and make no effort to discover
her.'
'Go, then, dear child,' she said; and added imploringly, You will come
back, my darling, will you not? You will not desert me after all these
years?'
'How can you think it, mother? I will come back, but it may be late.'
'I will keep awake for you, my darling. Say nothing more to your
uncle. Promise me that, dear child.'
'I will not speak another word to him.'
I turned to Josey West; she divined what I was about to say.
'I'll stop with your mother, if you _must_ go. Run round to my house
first, and say I sha'n't be home to-night. And look here. If Turk's
there, you'd best take him with you. I suppose you are going to Mr.
Rackstraw's?
'That was my intention,' I said.
'Of course you know the office will be closed; but I daresay it will
relieve your feelings to thump at the door.' She spoke fretfully; but
her tone changed when she said, 'Don't think only of yourself. Have
some thought for your mother.'
'One word, Josey. _You_ have no idea where Jessie is?'
'Not the slightest,' she replied. 'And you didn't know she was going
away?'
'I had no more idea of it than you had.'
'That night,' I said hesitatingly, 'when Mr. Glover was at your
house----'
'Oh,' she interrupted in a sharp tone, Mr. Glover! Well, what night?'
'A little while ago, when Jessie was there, and I was not. Did he pay
her great attention?'
'Of course he did.'
'Did he seem fond of her?'
'It wouldn't have been natural otherwise,' she replied, with a
suspicious look at me. 'Of course he seemed fond of her. Anything
more?'
'No,' I said, with a sigh; 'that's all.'
I kissed my mother, and left the room. Her loving eyes followed me to
the door.