Jenny: A Village Idyl by M. A. Curtois - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXXV
 THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE

SO down into darkness sank that New Year’s Eve, with its half-revealed story, its completed tragedy, leaving town and country provided with surmises, and stirred with much talk, and a store of opinions. The history of the nephew and niece of Mr Lee, their flight in the darkness, the river-side tragedy, the appearance of the wretched girl by the body of her lover, her story and that of her brother, the conduct of Mr Lee to both—the tidings of all these things spread far and wide, and made the talk of the whole of the neighbourhood. There were thrilling statements about a secret marriage, and a separation said to have taken place upon a wedding-night; there was a story also about an opened letter, which, in its turn, could cause excitement. The village of Warton was naturally triumphant, because it knew the parties, and could give its own opinions; it was only by degrees that its triumph became mingled with a sense of dissatisfaction that was certainly natural. For, although it was evident that there had been wrong-doers, it appeared that all the wrong-doers would not meet with punishment—there were some, on the contrary, who would even be rewarded, as if they had behaved themselves like honest folk. Poor village! it is hard when tales have not a moral, and where Nemesis does not attend where she is due—although we may always console ourselves by reflecting that the stones of vengeance grind after secret laws, and that it is probable that by some means or other all wrong-doers do arrive at punishment. We would be more contented, no doubt, if we saw that sight visibly; our sense of justice is not satisfied with less; but then, in this world where so much is always hidden, we must take the actions of vengeance, as we take other things, on trust. With these few words, offered humbly, as an excuse for the good fortune that fell to the share of some culprits we have known, let us leave the village to virtue and indignation, and visit those culprits for the last time in their home. That home had been saved from destruction—it had reason to be thankful—but we will not be certain that it was triumphant. For, although it is doubtless a good thing to be rescued from a battle, there are pale ghosts that wait even on our victories.

*****

On the last night of the May of that year whose commencement we have seen, Nat and Annie were sitting together in their home—in the yellow-raftered room which had echoed to the clamour of the Rantan less than a year before. It is true that Annie ought not to have been sitting up so late, but Nat was with her, and in a few hours he was going away, and some silent impulse on one side and on the other, made the brother and sister desire to spend that evening side by side. Annie also was leaving; she had no excuse for remaining now; she had only asked to be allowed to remain in her old home until her child was born.

They sat together silently; the lamp was on the table; now and then the young mother rocked the cradle with her foot. It was perhaps the same impulse which made them wish to be together that held their lips, and kept them quiet, although side by side. For it was impossible that old memories should not be stirred to-night, connected with others as well as with themselves. The next day, which would witness the departure of Nat for new employment, would be the wedding-day of Alice Robson and of Tim.

‘They’ll have a fine day,’ said Annie, very softly—she had not spoken on the subject before, but she knew she would be understood—these were the first words that had passed between the brother and sister since their mother had left them and they had been alone. ‘I’m glad to think so, they’ve been so good and kind, such kind friends to us, though it will be different now. Tim came to see me last night. I was very glad to see him. He thought me altered, I know, for he looked so hard at me.’

Nat did not answer—it may be that he remembered why, on his part, he could not go to see the bride; it must have been shame that brought the colour to his face, for he had been pale and heavy-eyed before. But the feeling that his sister had been communicative, although she had always previously been more than reserved to him, stirred him with a sense of answering sympathy. He spoke with an effort, he had not spoken much that evening since he had come back from his visit to the Squire. Both his mother and sister had understood without difficulty why he should be silent with regard to that experience.

‘I’ve seen t’ Squire, Annie,’ he said now, with an effort. ‘It’s been very cutting. Ye know that I went to him? I’ve never seen him sin’ that last night o’ the year. He seems to be older, even in that little time. He said he was glad Mr Lee had given me learning, that Mr Lee had told him I should be a good business lad. And he wasn’t angry. He talked as if he was sorry—as he’d been more hasty nor he should ha’ been wi’ me. But I couldn’t answer him a bit, I was so afeard o’ crying—I think I’ve not felt so bad in all my life.’

Annie moved her chair in the least degree closer to him, whilst the glance of her dark eyes rested on his face, her eyes which had grown so large, and sad, and gentle, during all these months that she had been an invalid. He understood the movement, and after a while he went on speaking, with the manner of one who is relieved to be able to speak.

 ‘It seems to make a differ—my going away to London, although I’ve not been much at home all these months. I was so close at Lindum, an’ I could think of home, even when I was at office-work or classes, or the rest. It won’t be the same when I’m at Westminster, in that big place o’ business where there’s so much to do—now that t’ home ’ll be gone, an’ mother’s weak an’ poorly, an’ ye’ll be livin’ wi’ her an’ Mr Lee. It’s cut me a deal too, to be thinkin’ about father—they say he’s real silly sin’ his illness, an’ll not be himsel’ again—he’ll have to be allays in some kind o’ keepin’, although they don’t think as he’ll be dangerous. I’m thinkin’—I’m his son—I felt desperate last winter—it wouldn’t ha’ ta’en much to make me drink like him. It makes me afraid to go away to London—afraid like and sorry when I think what last year has been.’

‘Nat,’ said Annie suddenly, ‘I mind me of a day when Alice took me to be with her at a class—it’s been on my mind sin’, the confessin’ an’ t’ prayin’, an’ then t’ hymn-singin’ an’ all t’ rest of it. You an’ me’s both sorry .... I think that we are sorry .... shall we kneel down together an’ say a prayer to-night?’

‘I’d like to,’ he answered, readily enough, ‘only I don’t understan’ what sort o’ prayer to say. We can’t make up prayers like as t’ preachers do. An’ t’ prayer-books is all together at t’ church. There’s the General Confession,’ he added, as a new idea struck him; ‘we’ve heard that often, I should think we remember it. It’s all about being sorry, an’ doin’ better, an’ t’ like. I should think it’s possible that it might do for us.’

‘Then we’ll have it,’ said Annie, agreeing readily, ‘we’ll kneel down together side by side upon the rug. You may say the words first as if you was t’ preacher, an’ I’ll be repeatin’ them as t’ people do. It’ll do me good .... I’m sure I’ve been bad eno’ .... it’ll maybe make my heart a bit lighter that’s such a weight to me.’

They arranged a chair, and knelt by it side by side, the brother and sister, still so young in years, and yet with such evident traces of recent trouble that their young faces had assumed an older look. Nat’s features were already in the transition-time, and some of the charm of his boyish grace was gone; but Annie was yet more lovely than before, though her illness had left her pale and delicate; and the black dress that hung so loosely on her figure set off the bright hair which had not yet a widow’s cap. They knelt together with their clasped hands almost touching, and after a pause of a minute Nat began; the simple gravity of his boyish earnestness breathing as with new meaning the familiar words:

‘Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Thy holy laws....’

So far he proceeded, and then a great sob caught his breath, the familiar words had become all too painful. Annie waited an instant to see if he would recover; then her soft voice took up the words, and he followed her:

‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us;’

‘But Thou, O Lord,’ proceeded Nat, to whom she left the precedence, ‘have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare Thou them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore Thou them that are penitent; According ... According ... Annie,’ cried out Nat, in the greatest agitation, ‘I don’t remember how it goes! I don’t remember how it goes!’

He remembered well enough, but he had become unnerved; and in his emotion the familiar words were lost. Annie quieted him with a touch upon his arm; and went on speaking as if there had not been a pause.

‘According to Thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of Thy holy Name. Amen.’

And Nat repeated after her, ‘Amen.’

For a minute they waited, and then rose up from their knees; and Nat took his sister into a close embrace; it was not possible for words to pass between them in that moment when their kisses met, and each face was wet with tears. Then they separated; and, moving quietly about the room, he began to put together some things that he would need.

‘Nat,’ cried Annie, with a sudden impulse, ‘you shall be the baby’s godfather.’

He stood still, looking at her, and she went on, speaking rapidly; ‘I’ll get some one in the village here to stand for you. An’ when you come home .... you can tell me about t’ boy .... if I don’t bring him up right you can let me know. Mr Lee’ll be the t’other, I daresay; but that won’t be the same; I shall be glad to think as you will be near the child!’

Was that like Annie, so proud and self-sufficient, so scornful of the brother with whom she had shared her youth? Nat was very much touched, so much moved he could not speak; he went to the baby and kissed it, and then turned to her again. For a while he stood by her, and held her in his arms—his grasp had already the strong clasp of a man.

‘We’ll be better children,’ said Annie, as soon as she could speak. ‘An’ we’ll do better by mother as has been so good to us. The doctor’s feared she won’t be so strong again; but we’ll try to do well by her, we owe her that! Oh, I must be going; I am too tired already; but I’m glad to have seen you this once, Nat, good-night.’

They kissed and separated; and the next day, in the morning, Nat said farewell to his relations, and set off for the town; not again, perhaps, to be brought so close to his sister as in the white heat of penitence which for a while had made them one. Yet never in vain is it for two human souls to be brought thus near together before the throne of God; that evening must have remained as a sanctifying influence in the minds and the lives of Annie and of Nat. They were not soon to meet; he went to work in London; and Annie was to share with her mother the home of Mr Lee.

That morning passed on, and before the strokes of noon the whole air was full of the sound of wedding-bells. Alice Robson and Tim Nicol had a bright day for their marriage; and many were the friends who came to see the sight. Neither Jenny nor her daughter were present at the wedding—there were reasons why their absence was not astonishing; but they had sent their warmest good-will to the bridegroom and the bride, and with that a tea-service; and they received some wedding-cake. This marriage might not perhaps make old friendship closer, but their friends had been faithful to them all the same, and no tenderer memories cling about our days than those of the friends who have stood near our distress. Such faithfulness merits the best that earth can give, and even on earth it gains a sure reward.

And so our story draws to its close at length—the story of an episode in village-life, not of occurrences altogether ordinary, and yet not unlike much that passes day by day. In Warton the memory of the Salters was enduring, and the remembrance also of the events with which we have concerned ourselves—mingled, as I have said, with some natural dissatisfaction at a certain incompleteness of justice to be discovered in the tale. I have said that such discontent was natural—but, for my own part, I am not strictly just, and, however certain of the necessity of traps and cats, am liable to inclinations in favour of the safety of the mouse. And, for such reasons, I cannot bring myself to be sorry that the children of Jenny, though not always wise or right, had their feet restored to the paths of peace and comfort, and even to higher hopes than their birth warranted. I think the possession of these new-found relations did much to bring happiness to Mr Lee, shaken by the tragic event of his nephew’s death, and by the uncertainty in which his niece’s life was lost. The old man made efforts to discover Tina Gillan, but they proved fruitless, and at length he sought no more.

Poor Jenny! It seems to me I see her now, in the position of Mr Lee’s house-mistress and friend, a gentle creature, with a timid, patient manner, with quiet movements, and soft hair streaked with grey. Her memory had never entirely recovered from the physical strain of one dreadful New Year’s Eve; for her health had been broken before by many troubles, and it was not possible for her to regain her former strength. But she understood that her children were honoured and were happy, under the friendship and patronage of the Squire and Mr Lee, and that years only brought an added tenderness to the behaviour of her boy and girl to her. If she was glad it was with a quiet happiness—she knew not how she had deserved it, or, how it had come to her—only that her bark had floated at last into peaceful waters, after many years of clouded, troubled life. Perhaps Nat understood—Nat, happy, useful, honoured, with an ever-widening education, and with ever higher hopes; or perhaps Annie knew—beautiful, admired, and prosperous, in spite of the shadow of sorrow that rested always on her face; her children had more education than herself, and could understand better how things should come to be, could look back on the timid love that had trained and tended them, and in their worst moments had risen, and proved itself strong to save. Such love, unobtrusive, unpraised, unknown to fame, may be found in our homes through the whole length of our land; unrewarded sometimes—but the ‘Infinite Pity is sufficient’ for even the ‘infinite pathos’ of a mother’s life.

I was standing the other day by the side of a low tombstone, grey, green with age, lying horizontally in the grass, with winter bareness round it, itself chipped and defaced, without any inscription visible, and only a faint mark of a cross. And I remembered how in the summer months I had been attracted to it by a sight that made another kind of suggestiveness—the little blue speedwells which, springing close to it, converted it into harmony with their loveliness. So tender, so gracious, with such power to consecrate, are such influences as the mother’s love, which lay their soft colours against the hard stones of our lives, and transform that which might else seem sad and broken into beauty.

THE END