by George Eliot
tyranny; he would never willingly loosen his grasp on her. She had a vague
notion of some protection the law might give her, if she could prove her life in
danger from him; but she shrank utterly, as she had always done, from any
active, public resistance or vengeance: she felt too crushed, too faulty, too
liable to reproach, to have the courage, even if she had had the wish, to put
herself openly in the position of a wronged woman seeking redress. She had no
strength to sustain her in a course of self-defence and independence: there
there was a darker shadow over her life than the dread of her husband�it was the
shadow of self-despair. The easiest thing would be to go away and hide herself
from him. But then there was her mother: Robert had all her little property in
his hands, and that little was scarcely enough to keep her in comfort without
his aid. If Janet went away alone, he would be sure to persecute her mother; and
if she did go away�what then? She must work to maintain herself; she must exert
herself, weary and hopeless as she was, to begin life afresh. How hard that
seemed to her! Janet's nature did not belie her grand face and form: there was
energy, there was strength in it; but it was the strength of the vine, which
must have its broad leaves and rich clusters borne up by a firm stay. And now
she had nothing to rest on �no faith, no love. If her mother had been very
feeble, aged, or sickly, Janet's deep pity and tenderness might have made a
daughter's duties an interest and a solace; but Mrs Raynor had never needed
tendance; she had always been giving help to her daughter; she had always been a
sort of humble ministering spirit; and it was one of Janet's pangs of memory,
that instead of being her mother's comfort, she had been her mother's trial.
Everywhere the same sadness! Her life was a sun-dried, barren tract, where there
was no shadow, and where all the waters were bitter.
No! She suddenly thought�and the thought was like an electric shock�there was
one spot in her memory which seemed to promise her an untried spring, where the
waters might be sweet. That short interview with Mr Tryan had come back upon
her�his voice, his words, his look, which told her that he knew sorrow. His
words had implied that he thought his death was near; yet he had a faith which
enabled him to labour� enabled him to give comfort to others. That look of his
came back on her with a vividness greater than it had had for her in reality:
surely he knew more of the secrets of sorrow than other men; perhaps he had some
message of comfort, different from the feeble words she had been used to hear
from others. She was tired, she was sick of that barren exhortation�Do right,
and keep a clear conscience, and God will reward you, and your troubles will be
easier to bear. She wanted strength to do right�she wanted something to rely on
besides her own resolutions; for was not the path behind her all strewn with
broken resolutions? How could she trust in new ones? She had often heard Mr
Tryan laughed at for being fond of great sinners. She began to see a new meaning
in those words; he would perhaps understand her helplessness, her wants. If she
could pour out her heart to him! if she could for the first time in her life
unlock all the chambers of her soul!
The impulse to confession almost always requires the presence of a fresh ear and
a fresh heart; and in our moments of spiritual need, the man to whom we have no
tie but our common nature, seems nearer to us than mother, brother, or friend.
Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves from each other behind a
screen of trivial words and deeds, and those who sit with us at the same hearth,
are often the farthest off from the deep human soul within us, full of unspoken
evil and unacted good.
When Mrs Pettifer came back to her, turning the key and opening the door very
gently, Janet, instead of being asleep, as her good friend had hoped, was
intensely occupied with her new thought. She longed to ask Mrs Pettifer if she
could see Mr Tryan; but she was arrested by doubts and timidity. He might not
feel for her� he might be shocked at her confession�he might talk to her of
doctrines she could not understand or believe. She could not make up her mind
yet; but she was too restless under this mental struggle to remain in bed.
"Mrs Pettifer," she said, "I can't lie here any longer; I must get up. Will you
lend me some clothes?"
Wrapt in such drapery as Mrs Pettifer could find for her tall figure, Janet went
down into the little parlour, and tried to take some of the break-fast her
friend had prepared for her. But her effort was not a successful one; her cup of
tea and bit of toast were only half finished. The leaden weight of
discouragement pressed upon her more and more heavily. The wind had fallen, and
a drizzling rain had come on; there was no prospect from Mrs Pettifer's parlour
but a blank wall; and as Janet looked out at the window, the rain and the
smoke-blackened bricks seemed to blend them-selves in sickening identity with
her desolation of spirit and the headachy weariness of her body.
Mrs Pettifer got through her household work as soon as she could, and sat down
with her sewing, hoping that Janet would perhaps be able to talk a little of
what had passed, and find some relief by unbosoming herself in that way. But
Janet could not speak to her; she was importuned with the longing to see Mr
Tryan, and yet hesitating to express it.
Two hours passed in this way. The rain went on drizzling, and Janet sat still,
leaning her aching head on her hand, and looking alternately at the fire and out
of the window. She felt this could not last�this motionless, vacant misery. She
must determine on something, she must take some step; and yet everything was so
difficult.
It was one o'clock, and Mrs Pettifer rose from her seat, saying, "I must go and
see about dinner."
The movement and the sound startled Janet from her reverie. It seemed as if an
opportunity were escaping her, and she said hastily, "Is Mr Tryan in the town
to-day, do you think?"
"No, I should think not, being Saturday, you know," said Mrs Pettifer, her face
lighting up with pleasure; "but he would come, if he was sent for. I can send
Jesson's boy with a note to him any time. Should you like to see him?"
"Yes, I think I should."
"Then I'll send for him this instant."
CHAPTER XVII.
When Dempster awoke in the morning, he was at no loss to account to himself for
the fact that Janet was not by his side. His hours of drunkenness were not cut
off from his other hours by any blank wall of oblivion; he remembered what Janet
had done to offend him the evening before, he remembered what he had done to her
at mid-night, just as he would have remembered if he had been consulted about a
right of road.
The remembrance gave him a definite ground for the extra ill-humour which had
attended his waking every morning this week, but he would not admit to himself
that it cost him any anxiety. "Pooh," he said inwardly, "she would go straight
to her mother'
s. She's as timid as a hare; and she'll never let anybody know
about it. She'll be back again before night."
But it would be as well for the servants not to know anything of the affair; so
he collected the clothes she had taken off the night before, and threw them into
a fire-proof closet of which he always kept the key in his pocket. When he went
down stairs he said to the housemaid, "Mrs Dempster is gone to her mother's;
bring in the break-fast."
The servants, accustomed to hear domestic broils, and to see their mistress put
on her bonnet hastily and go to her mother's, thought it only something a little
worse than usual that she should have gone thither in consequence of a violent
quarrel, either at midnight, or in the early morning before they were up. The
housemaid told the cook what she supposed had happened; the cook shook her head
and said, "Eh, dear, dear!" but they both expected to see their mistress back
again in an hour or two.
Dempster, on his return home the evening before, had ordered his man, who lived
away from the house, to bring up his horse and gig from the stables at ten.
After breakfast he said to the housemaid, "No one need sit up for me to-night; I
shall not be at home till to-morrow evening;" and then he walked to the office
to give some orders, expecting, as he returned, to see the man waiting with his
gig. But though the church clock had struck ten, no gig was there. In Dempster's
mood this was more than enough to exasperate him. He went in to take his
accustomed glass of brandy before setting out, promising himself the
satisfaction of presently thundering at Dawes for being a few minutes behind his
time. An outbreak of temper towards his man was not common with him; for
Dempster, like most tyrannous people, had that dastardly kind of self-restraint
which enabled him to control his temper where it suited his own convenience to
do so; and feeling the value of Dawes, a steady punctual fellow, he not only
gave him high wages, but usually treated him with exceptional civility. This
morning, however, ill-humour got the better of prudence, and Dempster was
determined to rate him soundly; a resolution for which Dawes gave him much
better ground than he expected. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour,
had passed, and Dempster was setting off to the stables in a back street to see
what was the cause of the delay, when Dawes appeared with the gig.
"What the devil do you keep me here for?" thundered Dempster, "kicking my heels
like a beggarly tailor waiting for a carrier's cart? I ordered you to be here at
ten. We might have driven to Whitlow by this time."
"Why, one o' the traces was welly i' two, an' I had to tek it to Brady's to be
mended, an' he didn't get it done i' time."
"Then why didn't you take it to him last night? Because of your demned laziness,
I suppose. Do you think I give you wages for you to choose your own hours, and
come dawdling up a quarter of an hour after my time?"
"Come, give me good words, will yer?" said Dawes, sulkily. "I'm not lazy, nor no
man shall call me lazy. I know well anuff what you gi' me wages for; it's for
doin' what yer won't find many men as 'ull do."
"What, you impudent scoundrel," said Dempster, getting into the gig, "you think
you're necessary to me, do you? As if a beastly bucket-carrying idiot like you
wasn't to be got any day. Look out for a new master, then, who'll pay you for
not doing as you're bid."
Dawes's blood was now fairly up. "I'll look out for a master as has got a better
charicter nor a lyin', bletherin' drunkard, an' I shouldn't hev to go fur."
Dempster, furious, snatched the whip from the socket, and gave Dawes a cut,
which he meant to fall across his shoulders, saying, "Take that, sir, and go to
hell with you!"
Dawes was in the act of turning with the reins in his hand when the lash fell,
and the cut went across his face. With white lips, he said, "I'll hev the law on
yer for that, lawyer as yer are," and threw the reins on the horse's back.
Dempster leaned forward, seized the reins, and drove off.
"Why, there's your friend Dempster driving out without his man again," said Mr
Luke Byles, who was chatting with Mr Budd in the Bridge Way. "What a fool he is
to drive that two-wheeled thing! he'll get pitched on his head one of these
days."
"Not he," said Mr Budd, nodding to Dempster as he passed; "he's got nine lives,
Dempster has."
CHAPTER XVIII.
It was dusk, and the candles were lighted before Mr Tryan knocked at Mrs
Pettifer's door. Her messenger had brought back word, that he was not at home,
and all afternoon Janet had been agitated by the fear that he would not come;
but as soon as that anxiety was removed by the knock at the door, she felt a
sudden rush of doubt and timidity: she trembled and turned cold.
Mrs Pettifer went to open the door, and told Mr Tryan, in as few words as
possible, what had happened in the night. As he laid down his hat and prepared
to enter the parlour, she said, "I won't go in with you, for I think perhaps she
would rather see you go in alone."
Janet, wrapped up in a large white shawl which threw her dark face into
startling relief, was seated with her eyes turned anxiously towards the door
when Mr Tryan entered. He had not seen her since their interview at Sally
Martin's long months ago; and he felt a strong movement of compassion at the
sight of the pain-stricken face which seemed to bear written on it the signs of
all Janet's intervening misery. Her heart gave a great leap, as her eyes met his
once more. No! she had not deceived herself: there was all the sincerity, all
the sadness, all the deep pity in them her memory had told her of; more than it
had told her, for in proportion as his face had become thinner and more worn,
his eyes appeared to have gathered intensity.
He came forward, and, putting out his hand, said, "I am so glad you sent for
me�I am so thankful you thought I could be any comfort to you." Janet took his
hand in silence. She was unable to utter any words of mere politeness, or even
of gratitude; her heart was too full of other words that had welled up the
moment she met his pitying glance, and felt her doubts fall away.
They sat down opposite each other, and she said in a low voice, while slow
difficult tears gathered in her aching eyes:�
"I want to tell you how unhappy I am�how weak and wicked. I feel no strength to
live or die. I thought you could tell me something that would help me." She
paused.
"Perhaps I can," Mr Tryan said, "for in speaking to me you are speaking to a
fellow-sinner who has needed just the comfort and help you are needing."
"And you did find it?"
"Yes; and I trust you will find it."
"O, I should like to be good and to do right," Janet burst forth, "but indeed,
indeed, my lot has been a very hard one. I loved my husband very dearly when we
were married, and I meant to make him happy�I wanted nothing else. But he began
to be angry with me for little things and ... I don't want to accuse him ... but
he drank and got m
ore and more unkind to me, and then very cruel, and he beat
me. And that cut me to the heart. It made me almost mad sometimes to think all
our love had come to that ... I couldn't bear up against it. I had never been
used to drink anything but water. I hated wine and spirits because Robert drank
them so; but one day when I was very wretched, and the wine was standing on the
table, I suddenly ... I can hardly remember how I came to do it ... I poured
some wine into a large glass and drank it. It blunted my feelings, and made me
more indifferent. After that, the temptation was always coming, and it got
stronger and stronger. I was ashamed, and I hated what I did; but almost while
the thought was passing through my mind that I would never do it again, I did
it. It seemed as if there was a demon in me always making me rush to do what I
longed not to do. And I thought all the more that God was cruel; for if He had
not sent me that dreadful trial, so much worse than other women have to bear, I
should not have done wrong in that way. I suppose it is wicked to think so ... I
feel as if there must be goodness and right above us, but I can't see it, I
can't trust in it. And I have gone on in that way for years and years. At one
time it used to be better now and then, but everything has got worse lately: I
felt sure it must soon end somehow. And last night he turned me out of doors ...
I don't know what to do. I will never go back to that life again if I can help
it; and yet everything else seems so miserable. I feel sure that demon will be
always urging me to satisfy the craving that comes upon me, and the days will go
on as they have done through all those miserable years. I shall always be doing
wrong, and hating myself after�sinking lower and lower, and knowing that I am
sinking. O can you tell me any way of getting strength? Have you ever known any
one like me that got peace of mind and power to do right? Can you give me any
comfort�any hope?"
While Janet was speaking, she had forgotten everything but her misery and her
yearning for comfort. Her voice had risen from the low tone of timid distress to
an intense pitch of imploring anguish. She clasped her hands tightly, and looked
at Mr Tryan with eager questioning eyes, with parted, trembling lips, with the
deep horizontal lines of overmastering pain on her brow. In this artificial life
of ours, it is not often we see a human face with all a heart's agony in it,
uncontrolled by self-consciousness; when we do see it, it startles us as if we
had suddenly waked into the real world of which this everyday one is but a
puppet-show copy. For some moments Mr Tryan was too deeply moved to speak.
"Yes, dear Mrs Dempster," he said at last, "there is comfort, there is hope for
you. Believe me there is, for I speak from my own deep and hard experience." He
paused, as if he had not made up his mind to utter the words that were urging
themselves to his lips. Presently he continued, "Ten years ago, I felt as
wretched as you do. I think my wretchedness was even worse than yours, for I had
a heavier sin on my conscience. I had suffered no wrong from others as you have,
and I had injured another irreparably in body and soul. The image of the wrong I
had done pursued me everywhere, and I seemed on the brink of madness. I hated my
life, for I thought, just as you do, that I should go on falling into temptation
and doing more harm in the world; and I dreaded death, for with that sense of
guilt on my soul, I felt that whatever state I entered on must be one of misery.
But a dear friend to whom I opened my mind showed me it was just such as I�the
helpless who feel themselves helpless�that God specially invites to come to Him,
and offers all the riches of His salvation: not forgiveness only; forgiveness
would be worth little if it left us under the powers of our evil passions; but
strength�that strength which enables us to conquer sin."