CHAPTER XXXIII
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!’