CHAPTER XVI
AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE
‘I HAVE come, sir,’ James Gillan said, raising his eyes modestly, ‘in consequence of the letter from yourself which I received to-day. If I had not received it you may be sure that I should not have ventured to intrude upon you.’
He made the statement quietly, and with apparent self-possession, although he knew that a conflict was raging in his heart, from the remembrance of another plan, and of very different hopes, which had nearly reached their fulfilment by the time the letter came. ‘Oh, would it have been better,’ this was the cry of the conflict, ‘if I had made up my mind to that, and had not come here at all?’
‘Oh, ah, ye speak well, sir, ye express yourself very well,’—the uncle was only half-pleased with his readiness—‘ye’ll have been educated, I make no doubt of it, and are able to have opinions for yourself. When my poor sister would go off with a stranger it was never my thought that she went to luxury, but ye and the girl seem to have been brought up easy-like, and to have had your share of the pleasures o’ the world. I hope as ye’ve had some real instruction too, to which ye can turn your heads and hands to-day.’
‘My sister, and myself,’ said James Gillan, quietly, ‘have had a wandering life, and an unsettled education, from which we have gathered such knowledge as we could. My father was a man of talent, I may say of many talents, but he did not meet with steady professional success; and I know that he regretted his inability to give us as much instruction as he wished. I think I may say, for my sister and myself, that we would like a less unsettled and securer life; but it is not yet a year since the death of both our parents, and we have not had time to find employment for ourselves. If you, being a relation, could give us any assistance, you may be certain at least of our gratitude.’ He spoke with the smile that disarms hostility giving pleasant lines to his lips, though it scarcely touched his eyes—the rarely lifted eyes which, being blue in colour, had more distinct beauty than any other feature in his face. Mr Lee was not insensible to the charm of glance and smile, but he was also aware that he did not know their meaning yet.
‘Oh, ah, industrious!’ he said, not without sarcasm, with the raillery, rough if not rude, that was peculiar to him; ‘you would make me into an office or a registry, to find you places that you may go an’ work. That’s very fine; I’m glad of that sort o’ spirit, it isn’t too common in these idle days. But tell me, nephy, an’ speak for my niece as well, is that all that ye think ye may expect from me?’
Before his keen glance the young man’s eyelids fell; but that discomfiture was only momentary, and with renewed assurance he raised his eyes again. A fine tact, a tact that is not common in the world, can make even an essentially timid nature brave at times, for it is able to be aware of the fitting moment when secret purposes may be helped by honesty. If James Gillan were open-hearted his countenance belied him, but at this moment his words were direct enough.
‘I think, sir,’ he said, with a little hesitation, but not more than was natural in so young a man, ‘I think .... if you ask me .... that I must reply that if we cannot expect we yet might hope for more.’ And then, feeling rather than seeing his uncle’s gaze upon him, he went on with resolution, although his colour rose; ‘We have no parents .... I believe you have no children .... there are many ways in which you might do well by us.’ The sense of his daring almost stopped his breath—on the issue of those few words he had staked his future.
Mr Lee was staggered; he rose up from his seat; he walked with firm paces straight across the room; he stood by the window as if he were looking at the valley on which already the evening radiance fell. In spite of himself his nephew’s words had pleased him, the challenge he had flung had been accepted courageously; whatever might be this young man’s faults and failings, it was obvious that he was not without qualities. And then, the readiness, the refinement of his visitor, were beginning at length to impress him favourably; if he had been partly repelled by them during the first few minutes, he felt the reaction in their favour now. It needed the remembrance of all he had seen and heard during his visit to the Manor Farm in the absence of his relations, to recall to him the caution which, although it was habitual to him, he felt for once almost disposed to drop. For he was a lonely man .... he did not know how to spend his money .... and if these young relations would submit to him ....
With a decided movement—but then his movements were always decided—he turned away from the window, and the evening glow on the valley: and with a few strides crossed the room, and stood by the table near which his nephew sat. He stood with his hands resting on it, a favourite attitude, looking down on the young man, his harsh features furrowed and rugged with an agitation, which rendered it difficult for him to speak at once. There was no sign of emotion, however, in his hard, dry voice, when at length he spoke.
‘Nephy Gillan,’ he said, ‘I’ll deal direct by ye, as ye, on your part, have dealt direct by me; I’ve got some money—I’ve got a deal o’ money—an’ I’d as lieve waste it on ye as on charities. But then, ye see, I don’t know ye well eno’, and I’m not quite satisfied with all I’ve heard on ye—I don’t want to give money, as ye’ll well understand, for a girl to flurret, an’ a boy to gamble with.’
It was a home-thrust, and the young man’s head bent again, although less in surprise than in perplexity; for it was not easy to decide in the first instant in what manner these accusations should be met. He was not aware of the extent of his uncle’s information, and it might be dangerous to attempt denials; and, moreover, the past scrapes of himself and Tina were subjects on which he did not wish questions to be asked. It appeared safer, therefore, to assume humility—the humility that disarms opposition and in that way defends itself.
‘I think I told you,’ he said after a pause—a pause not long enough to give suspicion time to wake—‘that we have had a wandering life and an unsettled education; and I don’t doubt that to you that sounds like idleness. But it is our wish to find work for ourselves—assisted, if you will, by your generosity; and I am sure I may say that if you will consent to help us you will not find that you have any reason to complain.’ There was a slight sound of hesitation in his voice; but, in spite of that, he got through the words well enough.
‘Ye are meaning to tell me,’ Mr Lee looked at him fixedly, ‘that, if I were to take ye into my house to-day, ye wouldn’t waste money, an’ your sister wouldn’t flurret, an’ ye’d give up your old acquaintances, an’ be all as I could wish.’ A sudden, sharp pang pierced to the young man’s heart; for a moment it contracted his features, then he looked up and smiled. That smile meant assent, and he knew it meant assent; in that moment, for the sake of his ambition, he renounced his love.
‘Hum—hum—’ said the old man, and sat down, and got up again, and stood by the window, and then walked about the room; and then, pausing once more by the side of the table, remained with his head bent, absorbed in thought. His companion was aware that on the issue of those moments depended the lives of his sister and himself, but he sat quietly waiting the event, and only clenched the nails of his hands into the palms. Five minutes passed—ten—in that strained, breathless silence, and then Mr Lee sat down once more and spoke.
‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I’ve been glad to hear all ye say, an’ to have this opportunity of knowing more o’ ye; we’ll have occasion to talk on these things again, an’ I’ll happen be able to make up my mind next time. I’ve got many calls, ye see, on me just now, but I’ll pay for the board and lodgin’ as before; an’ ye an’ your sister must come to me some day, so as we may be learnin’ to know more of each other. I’ve an engagement, so I’ll wish ye good-day; but if ye stay for refreshment I’ll have some sent to ye. Good-bye to ye now, an’ many thanks for thy visit; we’ll learn to be acquainted soon, I doubt—good-bye.’
‘The old snake,’ muttered James Gillan, in a fury, by the window to which he strode as his uncle left the room; ‘he thinks himself clever, no doubt, to put me off, and to bind me with promises whilst he himself is free. At any rate, I need make no alteration now; I certainly will not give up my plans and hopes for him—a fine thing indeed it would be to lose the girl I love for the sake of an old rapscallion who gives words instead of coin!.... And yet if I lost his favour .... but that is not inevitable .... we will keep things dark for a while and bide our time; she ought really to consent to a little secrecy when I have shown myself willing to do so much for her .... And I shall have her, I shall at least be sure of that; and it may be that all things will turn out for the best.’ The sound of the opening door disturbed his meditations; he declined all refreshment, ordered his horse, and rode away.
That night, a dark night, when all was indistinct, and even the stars were not brilliant in the sky, and the outlines of trees made dim and gloomy masses, and the village had closed its blinds and locked its doors—on that night, whilst the wide meadows lay beneath the stars, two shadowy figures met in the Thackbusk field. And as they stood there, with their arms round each other, they whispered to each other that all was arranged at last.