MRS. BROWN EXPLAINS
There was a funeral in the village on the Wednesday of last week. On
the previous Sunday Mother Hubbard had assured me with great solemnity
that something of the sort was going to happen, for had not a solitary
magpie perched upon our garden wall and waved his handsome tail in full
view of the window for at least a minute? What connection there was
between his visit and the calamity which it foretold was not clear to
me, but it appears that the magpie is a bird of omen, and there is an
old rhyme which in these parts is considered oracular:
"One for sorrow,
And two for mirth;
Three for a wedding
And four for a birth."
However that may be, it is a fact that in the late afternoon Dr.
Trempest called to inform me that Farmer Brown was dead.
"He has lasted twice as long as anyone could have foreseen," he said.
"Poor chap, it's a mercy it's all over."
The whole countryside was inches deep in snow when they buried him in
the little God's acre that clings to the side of the hill at the point
where the roads diverge. The grave-digger had a hard task, for we had
had a fortnight of severe frost; but he bent to his work with the grim
persistence of the man who knows that the last enemy is a hard master,
and that there must be no tarrying in his service.
All the village turned out to the funeral, and there was a great crowd
of invited mourners. It struck me as strange that so many coaches
should be provided and that the last sad rites should partake of the
nature of a public spectacle, for surely when we have given our loved
ones into God's keeping it is most seemly to lay all that is human of
them in the lap of earth reverently and with simplicity; but the
Yorkshire folk make it an occasion of display, fearing, perhaps, to
dishonour their dead, and dreading even more the criticism and
displeasure of their neighbours.
When the grave had been filled in and the upturned earth was covered
with the evergreens and wreaths which loving hands had brought and left
there, I went and stood beside the grave and thought of Farmer Brown's
parting words. I suppose it is heretical to pray for the dead, but I
did it.
Yesterday I went to see Mrs. Brown, taking the photographs and a framed
enlargement with me. It was a hard tramp, and my arms ached before the
journey's end was reached, but I am wonderfully "fit" just now, and I
thoroughly enjoyed the walk. Well--perhaps I must modify that. There
was always present with me the anticipation of a depressing scene, and
that marred the enjoyment somewhat, though it could not destroy it.
Yet to feel the sting of a north-easterly wind on one's cheek, and the
sensation of crunching snow beneath one's feet, with a bright blue sky
overhead and the far-away smell of spring in one's nostrils, was to
experience something of the joy of life.
Here and there great drifts of snow were piled up against the banks and
walls, and I knew that sheep and even men were sometimes lost in them,
but I was safe enough, for the road was fairly well trodden, and when I
left it and climbed the stile into the fields leading to the farm the
track was quite discernible.
It is a mistake to anticipate, and to dread what lies behind the veil
is folly. Mrs. Brown taught me that in a very few moments. There was
no gloom about the kitchen where she and her daughter Jane, were busily
engaged in household duties, though somehow one felt that sorrow dwelt
there as a guest.
I explained the purpose of my visit, and the mother's eyes grew dim
with tears.
"He never breathed a word," she said; "but that was just Greenwood to
nowt. He was allus tryin' to do someb'dy a good turn, but so as they
shouldn't know it, and it was just like the dear lad to think o' them
he was goin' to leave, an' try to pleasure 'em."
"Perhaps you would rather open the parcels yourselves when I am gone,"
I suggested, but the widow shook her head.
"Nay, I'd like to see them whilst you're here, miss, if you don't mind.
Jane, love, put the kettle on an' make a cup of tea for the young lady.
I will confess 'at I had fret just a bit 'cos we haven't any picture of
father, except one 'at was took soon after we were wed, and that's over
thirty year sin'; and I can't tell you how glad I shall be to 'ave 'em."
I had done my best, and I will admit that the enlargement pleased _me_,
but I was ill prepared for the effect it produced upon the widow and
the daughter. The girl was in her twenties, and looked matter-of-fact
enough, but the moment she saw it she took the frame in her hands,
pressed her lips to the glass, and cried with a dry sob, "Oh, dad,
dear, I cannot bear it!" and then knelt down on the broad fender and
prepared some toast.
But her mother placed the picture against the big Bible on the high
drawers and gazed steadily at it for a moment or two, after which she
came up to me where I was standing, and throwing her arms around my
neck drew my head on to her shoulder, for she is a tall woman, and
kissed me again and again. But only one or two big tears fell upon my
cheek, and she wiped them away hastily with her apron.
"I can't help it, miss," she said, "you'll not take offence, I'm sure.
But I can't do anything but love you for what you've done for me an'
Jane. You've brought more comfort to this house than I ever thought
the Lord 'ud send us, an' I hope He'll pay you back a hundredfold, for
I cannot."
I wonder why one should feel so warm and virtuous for having done one's
duty. I had put my heart into the work, as I always do--for who would
be a mere mechanic whom God meant for a craftsman?--but the farmer had
paid me the price I asked, and the whole transaction had been conducted
on strict business lines. What right had I to be pleased with the
super-payment of love? But I was.
Over the teacups Mrs. Brown opened her heart to me. Jane had gone away
to the dairy, and I think her mother spoke more freely in her absence,
or perhaps the feeling of strangeness had by that time been dispelled.
I saw it did her good to talk and I rarely interrupted her. She sat
with her cup on her knee, and her eyes fixed, for the most part, upon
the hearth.
"He seemed to suffer terrible towards the end," she said, "but he allus
put a good face on it an' tried to keep it from us. But choose how he
suffered you never 'eard one word of complaint, an' he wouldn't let us
say ought hard against Him above. And yet, you know, he was never what
you might call a church member, an' he wasn't one 'at went regular to
either church or chapel. You see, it's a matter o' two mile to t'
chapel at Windyridge, an' t' nearest church 'll be gettin' on for four
mile away.
"An' he wasn't one 'at spoke a deal about religion, neither, nobbut he
wouldn't hear anybody speak a word agen it. There isn't a labourer or
a farmer or t' doctor himself 'at 'ud use a bad word i' front o'
Greenwood, an' he never did himself. He used to sit i' that
high-backed chair where you're sittin' now, every night of his life,
wi' that big Bible on his knee, an' read in it, but he never read it
out loud, an' what Scripture we got we'd to read for ourselves. Nobbut
he'd quote it now an' then, like, when there were any 'casion.
"I've thought often sin' he came home that day an' told us what were
goin' to happen, an' especially sin' he were laid up, 'at it 'ud maybe
have been better if he'd read it up for us all to hear, an' talked
about it a bit, but it wasn't his way, wasn't that. He was same as he
couldn't, but I wonder sometimes if it 'ud have saved us this trouble."
"But could anything really have saved it?" I inquired. "He told me it
was something internal which could not be accounted for."
"Ah, miss," she replied, "there's a kind of illness 'at you can't get
any doctor to cure, but Greenwood's illness could be accounted for when
you know all. It's true enough 'at there wasn't a stronger nor
likelier man i' t' West Ridin' than my 'usband, nor a steadier. And he
never ailed owt, never. Day in an' day out he did his work wi' t' best
on 'em, an' took all his meals hearty. But he lived wi' a great big
wound in his inside this last ten year for all that, an' they can say
what they like, but I know if he hadn't had that sore in his soul he'd
never have had that bad place in his body.
"You can't go by appearances, miss. My husband was right enough in his
body, but he was sick at heart. It's not easy tellin', but I can tell
you, though I'm sure I don't know why. We never had but two children,
Jane an' her brother Joseph. My husband was called after his
mother--her name was Greenwood afore she was married--so we called our
lad Joseph after his grandfather. He came within a year of our gettin'
wed, and a brighter little lad never breathed. Eh! he was that bonny
an' sweet ...
"How is it, miss, 'at some grows up so crook'd an' others i' t' same
family never gives you a minute's trouble? Our Jane has been a comfort
to us both all her life, but Joe has broke our rest many a hundred
nights. He was same as he took t' wrong road from bein' a little lad
o' twelve. He would go his own road, an' it was allus t' wrong road.
He'd work if it pleased him, an' he wouldn't if it didn't, an' you
could neither coax him nor thrash him into it. His father tried both
ways, an' I'm sure I did all I could. An' the way he sauced his father
you wouldn't believe for a young lad.
"He had his good points, too, for he wouldn't lie to save his own skin
or anybody else's, an' he was as honest as they make 'em. But he was
self-willed and 'eadstrong past all tellin'. He used to laugh about
the devil, an' say it was all bosh an' old wives' tales, but if ever a
man was possessed wi' one our Joseph was when he were nineteen.
"There isn't a church for four mile; no, but there are two drink shops
easy enough to get at. Oh, miss, why do they let the devil set traps
to catch the souls o' men? They can't keep him out of us, God knows,
but they've no need to build places for him to live in, and license him
to do his devil's work. O Lord, why didn't You save our Joe?
"He came home drunk the day he was nineteen, an' his father was just
full up wi' grief an' vexation. An' men don't bear wi' it same as
women do. He put the Bible down on the table, Greenwood did, an' he
went up to t' lad, an' he said:
"'I won't have it, Joe. I've told you afore an' I tell you again, if
you're goin' to come home drunk ye'll sleep in t' barn, for I won't
have you in t' house.'
"Oh, I can't bide to think of it, but Joe swore a great oath, an'
clenched his fist an' hit his father in t' body; an' then Greenwood
seized him by t' coat collar an' flung him in t' yard, an' locked t'
door agen him. I shall never forget it. I cried an' begged him to go
out to t' lad, but he wouldn't. He said he could sleep in t' barn, but
until he were sober he shouldn't come into t' house.
"Well, I said no more, but crept upstairs to bed an' sobbed for an
hour, an' then I heard Greenwood shouting 'at t' barn was afire. We
all rushed out, an' there was soon plenty of 'elp, but we lost two cows
an' a lot o' hay that night; but worse than that, we lost our Joe. Not
'at he were burned or ought o' that sort. He fired t' barn an' made
off, an' his father never tried to follow him. But from that day to
this we've never heard one word of our lad.
"I can hear them beasts roaring with pain in the night yet, but you
know, miss, that was soon over, an' they got their release. But it's
different wi' us. We aren't beasts. Greenwood could bear pain. He
made nought o' the blow, though it was a savage 'un, but it was the
thought of it 'at hurt him, an' the thought of him 'at did it, an'
wondering what had come of him. Pain's nought; any woman can bide
pain--an' God knows 'at we have to do, oft enough--but when your soul
gets hurt there's no putting any ointment on _it_, an' there's no
doctor in t' world can do you any good.
"God? Oh yes, miss, I know, but I don't understand. I believe
Greenwood did, an' he went home peaceful, if not happy; an' I'm not
murmuring. I believe the Lord 'll work it all out i' time, but it's a
puzzle. I should ha' lost heart an' hope but for Greenwood; but I'm
goin' to hold on for his sake an' Jane's--an' for our Joe's."
As I walked home the lingering sun cast long, black shadows athwart the
snow, but the shadows were only on the surface, and did not soil the
purity of the mantle which God had thrown over the earth.