We sat down in silence. Ezra Jennings laid aside his hat, and passed his
hand wearily over his forehead, wearily through his startling white and
black hair. He tossed his little nosegay of wild flowers away from him,
as if the remembrances which it recalled were remembrances which hurt
him now.
"Mr. Blake!" he said, suddenly. "You are in bad company. The cloud of a
horrible accusation has rested on me for years. I tell you the worst at
once. I am a man whose life is a wreck, and whose character is gone."
I attempted to speak. He stopped me.
"No," he said. "Pardon me; not yet. Don't commit yourself to expressions
of sympathy which you may afterwards wish to recall. I have mentioned an
accusation which has rested on me for years. There are circumstances
in connexion with it that tell against me. I cannot bring myself to
acknowledge what the accusation is. And I am incapable, perfectly
incapable, of proving my innocence. I can only assert my innocence. I
assert it, sir, on my oath, as a Christian. It is useless to appeal to
my honour as a man."
He paused again. I looked round at him. He never looked at me in return.
His whole being seemed to be absorbed in the agony of recollecting, and
in the effort to speak.
"There is much that I might say," he went on, "about the merciless
treatment of me by my own family, and the merciless enmity to which
I have fallen a victim. But the harm is done; the wrong is beyond all
remedy. I decline to weary or distress you, sir, if I can help it. At
the outset of my career in this country, the vile slander to which
I have referred struck me down at once and for ever. I resigned my
aspirations in my profession--obscurity was the only hope left for me.
I parted with the woman I loved--how could I condemn her to share my
disgrace? A medical assistant's place offered itself, in a remote
corner of England. I got the place. It promised me peace; it promised me
obscurity, as I thought. I was wrong. Evil report, with time and chance
to help it, travels patiently, and travels far. The accusation from
which I had fled followed me. I got warning of its approach. I was able
to leave my situation voluntarily, with the testimonials that I had
earned. They got me another situation in another remote district. Time
passed again; and again the slander that was death to my character
found me out. On this occasion I had no warning. My employer said, 'Mr.
Jennings, I have no complaint to make against you; but you must set
yourself right, or leave me.' I had but one choice--I left him. It's
useless to dwell on what I suffered after that. I am only forty years
old now. Look at my face, and let it tell for me the story of some
miserable years. It ended in my drifting to this place, and meeting with
Mr. Candy. He wanted an assistant. I referred him, on the question of
capacity, to my last employer. The question of character remained. I
told him what I have told you--and more. I warned him that there were
difficulties in the way, even if he believed me. 'Here, as elsewhere,'
I said 'I scorn the guilty evasion of living under an assumed name: I am
no safer at Frizinghall than at other places from the cloud that follows
me, go where I may.' He answered, 'I don't do things by halves--I
believe you, and I pity you. If you will risk what may happen, I will
risk it too.' God Almighty bless him! He has given me shelter, he
has given me employment, he has given me rest of mind--and I have the
certain conviction (I have had it for some months past) that nothing
will happen now to make him regret it."