THE CONFESSION
Rix Parkinson had been a handsome man, but now disease and the shadow
of death were upon his countenance; he had long sunk into a chronic
crapulence, and only his eyes, that shone from a wasted and besotted
face, retained some natural beauty. He was dying, but vitality still
flashed up in him, and no physician could with certainty predict whether
a week or a month might remain to him. Parkinson’s home adjoined that
wherein young Samuel Prowse lived with his mother; and this woman it
was who of her charity ministered to the sufferer, and carried out the
doctor’s orders.
“Blood is thicker than water,” said a neighbour. “Why for don’t the man’s
relations come to him?”
But Mrs Prowse shook her head. “An’ Christianity’s thicker than blood,”
she answered. “As for the poor soul’s relations--why ’tis surely given to
the Christian to scrape kinship with all the sick an’ the sorrowing? ’Tis
our glory and our duty to do it.”
This good woman knew Minnie Sweetland well, and had known her since her
childhood. Now she opened the door of Parkinson’s cottage to the widow
and Titus Sim.
“He’m ready and waiting,” said Mrs Prowse. “He’ve just awoke from a long
sleep, an’ be strong as a lion for the minute, and out of pain seemingly.
Come in an’ let him say what he will to you while strength’s with him.”
They followed her into the sick room, where Rix Parkinson sat up in
bed with a blue shawl wrapped round him. At his elbow was a table with
bottles and a Bible upon it.
“You be come? Well, I’m glad of it. I won’t waste words, for my wind
grows scanty. Sit here, young woman, please; an’ you leave us, mother.
But don’t go far. I don’t like to see you out of my eyes so long as they
be open.”
Mrs Prowse smiled at him and departed. Sim sat on one side of the sick
man and Minnie took her place upon the other.
For a moment he was silent, breathing slowly and looking up at the
ceiling. Then he spoke.
“They’ve given me the credit for a lot of night work in the free trade
way with hares and pheasants as I didn’t do; but, against that, nobody’s
never blamed me for a lot of things as I did do. For instance, the
business of Adam Thorpe--there was only one name ever cropped up in
that--your husband’s. I seed him took away after you was married; and I
laughed and said in the open street, ‘Lucky’s the he that gets that she!’
Meaning you, young woman. But God’s my judge, if it had gone further I
should have told what I know about it. ’Tis only them as be careful of
their skins that come to harm in the world. If you don’t care a curse
what happens to you, the devil makes you his own care. Two men was in the
row when Adam Thorpe got his last dose, and I was one of ’em. T’other
be going strong still, but he don’t come into this story; and his name
ban’t Daniel Sweetland; an’ it wasn’t him as shot Adam Thorpe. I done
it. I didn’t go out to do it; but ’twas him or me as it chanced. I had
to stop him, or he’d have stopped me. He bested me once afore--long
ago--an’ I wasn’t going to let him do it again. So I shot him and fired
low, hoping to stop him without killing him. But his time had come. So
much for that. I went my way and made little doubt but the police would
smell out the truth, for I’d done nought to hide it. But I heard nothing
until next morning. Then there comed the news that Thorpe was dead, and
that Dan Sweetland’s new gun had been found alongside the place where he
was shot. That interested me, and I began to wonder what my pal had been
up to. There was no chance to ax him just then. ’Twas his affair, anyway,
not mine. And then I began to take a new interest in my life and find
out what a damned fine thing it was to be alive and free. They nabbed
Sweetland and I watched ’em do it. If it had come to hanging, I’d have
given myself up for him; but instead of that, he gived ’em the slip. And
the rest you know. Now he’s dead, they tell me, and, as I shall be after
him afore the corn’s ripe, I want to clear his memory for evermore. He
had no hand in that job, and, so far as I know, wasn’t within miles of
the place. The matter of the gun be on my pal’s shoulders. He denied it
when I taxed him. But right well I know that he put it there for his own
ends. I’ll say no more about that. But God in Heaven can witness that I’d
never have let ’em hang Daniel. My pal and me had one or two other little
affairs afterwards, as we’d had many before; then my health gived way,
an’ now I’m rotting alive and sha’n’t be sorry to go. Ax any questions
you like. Mr Sim here will testify to what I’ve told you. I’ll swear
afore my Judge that every word be true. As to Thorpe, I didn’t go that
night to kill him; but if there was a man I should have liked to settle
with, ’twas him. I slept no worse for it. If your husband had lived
an’ got penal servitude, ’twas my intention to tell you the truth on my
deathbed, as I have now; but not otherwise--unless they’d given him the
rope. Then I’d have confessed an’ took it. That’s the living truth. He’s
died afore me, after all; but now that you know how ’twas, his memory’s
clear, and you can tell the world all about it so soon as I be gone.”
There was a silence; then Parkinson spoke again.
“I’m not hopeful to see Dan upalong; for ’twould be awful ’dashus for the
like of me wi’ my sporting career, to count on Heaven; but I’ve done what
I can to atone. Any way, if I do come up with Daniel Sweetland--whether
’tis the good place or the bad--this I’ll tell him: that his memory
be clear an’ that ’tis known to Moreton he was guiltless. ’Twill be a
comfort to the man, I should think--wherever he bides.”
A wonderful look rested on the face of Minnie Sweetland. For a moment
pure thankfulness filled her soul; then there came gratitude into it. To
dwell upon the past was vain; to ask this perishing wretch why he had
kept silence when her husband was taken from her; to wring her hands or
weep for the woful past--these things at any time were deeds foreign to
the woman’s nature. Her mind was practical. It had in it now no room for
more than thankfulness and gratitude. She uttered a wordless and silent
prayer--a thanksgiving that flashed through her heart in a throb; then
she turned to the penitent and took his hand between hers.
“May a merciful Lord be good to you for this,” she said gently. “May you
rest easier and die easier for knowing that you’ve righted my innocent
husband’s memory and lifted darkness from the heads of his father and his
mother. And mine--mine! You told me nought I didn’t know in my heart, for
from his own lips ’twas spoken to me that he’d not done it or dreamed
of it; but now the world can know. Nought will be hidden any more. All
living men, as have ever heard my Daniel’s name, shall hear ’tis an
honourable name--a name that I’ll go down to my grave proud of. ’Twill
make my life easier to live--easier to bear; ’twill sweeten it till my
own short years be run an’ I go back to him for ever.”
Titus Sim listened and said nothing; but he felt the scene sharply. His
brows were down-drawn and her words made him suffer.
At last, with an effort, he spoke to Parkinson.
“We must leave you now. Your strength has been taxed enough. This is a
good day for all of us--a day to make man trust surer in his God and
in the power of right. Say no more of this to any soul, Rix Parkinson.
You’ve done your duty, and ’twill weigh for you in Heaven and lift you up
at the end.”
“You’ll let me die in peace?” asked the sick man. But he spoke to Minnie:
from the first moment of their entry he turned to her, and only her.
“Be sure of that. What avails to trouble your last hours now? Nothing
shall be said till you’re asleep.”
“Don’t be gentle to me--ban’t in human nature. I don’t ax that. I don’t
ax you to forgive or to forget what an everlasting rascal I’ve been.”
“I do forgive you,” she said.
“Why, then Dan will; an’ God will! Be He behind His own men and women in
love an’ kindness? Now I can die laughing. To think ’twas in human power
of a wife to forgive me!”
“Come,” said Sim. “We will leave him now.”
Titus rose and turned to get his hat. He was only removed from them a
moment, but in that space the sufferer beckoned Minnie with his eyes and
she leant her head towards him.
“Don’t marry that man!” he whispered under his breath; then continued
aloud, to mask his message, “Good-bye--say, ‘good-bye’ to a sinner, who
yet can go fearless now--ay, an’ thankful too. Fearless an’ thankful,
because you could forgive him. ’Tis your goodness, widow Sweetland, that
has lifted me to trust the goodness of God; ’tis your pardon hath made me
trust in His. I’ll go to my punishment without flinching or fearing, for
I know He’ll forgive me at the end.”
Mrs Prowse entered with food for the sick man, and Minnie and Sim took
their eternal leave of him.
Within half an hour Parkinson was again sleeping peacefully, and while
Titus ran home without stopping, for he was late, Minnie walked slowly to
the Moor. Her sad face shone with this blessed news. She longed to cry
from the housetops; she thirsted to tell each passer-by that her husband
was innocent of the evil linked with his name. She thought of his mother
first and then his father; she even felt more tenderly towards Titus Sim
for the deep joy he had expressed on hearing the truth; but presently
the living faded from her memory and she was in thought alone with her
husband. At Bennett’s Cross, hard by Warren Inn, an impulse moved her
from the lonely road to the lonely stone. And she passed over the heath
and knelt by the ancient granite carved into the symbol of her faith.
She knelt and prayed and so passed on, much uplifted by the blessing of
the day. She moved forward thankful, grateful for this unutterable good,
strong to endure her life without him, fortified to face an existence
which, like the faded yet lovely passage of an Indian Summer, should not
lack for some subdued goodness, should not be void of beauty and content.
The power to do good remained with her; she repined no more; her native
bravery rose in her heart. She looked out fearless and patient upon the
loneliness to come, and in that survey she intended that a memory would
be her beacon, not a man. The dying drunkard need have felt no fear for
Daniel’s widow. It was not in her nature to marry again.