A Death-Bed Confession
And so you think I shall go to heaven when I die, sir! And why?Because I have spent my time and what bits of money I've had inlooking after the poor in this parish! And I would do it again if Ihad my time to come over again; but it will take more than that towipe out my sins, and God forgive me if I can't always believe thateven His mercy will be equal to it. You're a clergyman, and youought to know. I think sometimes the black heart in me, that startedme on that deed, must have come from the devil, and that I am hischild after all, and shall go back to him at the last. Don't look soshocked, sir. That's not what I really believe; it's only what Isometimes fear I ought to believe, when I wake up in the chill nightand think things over, lying here alone.To see me old and prim, with my cap and little checked shawl, you'dnever think that I was once one of the two prettiest girls on allthe South Downs. But I was, and my cousin Lilian was the other. Welived at Whitecroft together at our uncle's. He was a well-to-dofarmer, as well-to-do as a farmer could be in such times as those,and on such land as that.Whenever I hear people say 'home,' it's Whitecroft I think of, withits narrow windows and thatch roof and the farm-buildings about it,and the bits of trees all bent one way with the wind from the sea.Whitecroft stands on a shoulder of the Downs, and on a clear day youcan see right out to sea and over the hollow where Felscombe liescuddled down close and warm, with its elms and its church, and itsbright bits of gardens. They are sheltered from the sea wind downthere, but there's nothing to break the wing of it as it rollsacross the Downs on to Whitecroft; and of a night Lilian and I usedto lie and listen to the wind banging the windows, and know that thechimneys were rocking over our heads, and feel the house move to andfro with the strength of the wind like as if it was the swing of acradle.Lilian and I had come there, little things, and uncle had brought usup together, and we loved each other like sisters until thathappened, and this is the first time I have told a human soul aboutit; and if being sorry can pay for things--well, but I'm afraidthere are some things nothing can pay for.It was one wild windy night, when, if you should open the door aninch, everything in the house jarred and rattled. We were sittinground the fire, uncle and Lilian and me, us with our knitting andhim asleep in his newspaper, and nobody could have gone to sleepwith a wind like that but a man who has been bred and born at sea,or on the South Downs.Lilian and I were talking over our new winter dresses, when therecome a knock at the side door, not nigh so loud as some of thenoises the wind made, but not being used to it, uncle sat up, wideawake, and said, 'Hark!' In a minute it come again, and then I wentto the door and opened it a bit. There was some one outside whobegan to speak as soon as he saw the light, but I could not hearwhat he said for the roaring of the wind, and the cracking of thetrees outside.'Shut that door!' uncle shouted from the parlour. 'Let the dog in,whatever he is, and let him tell his tale this side the oak.'So I let him in and shut the door after him, and I had better haveshut to the lid of my own coffin after me.Him that I let in was dripping wet, and all spent with fighting thewind on these Downs, where it is like a lion roaring for its prey,and will go nigh to kill you, if you fight it long enough. He leanedagainst the wall and said--'I have lost my way, and I have had a nasty fall. I think there issomething wrong with my arm--hollow--slip--light--hospitality begyour pardon, I'm sure,' and with that he fainted dead off on thecocoanut matting at my feet.Uncle came out when I screamed, and we got the stranger in and puthim on the big couch by the fire. Uncle was nursing up with one ofhis bad attacks of bronchitis, the same thing that carried him offin the end, and the first thing he said when he'd felt the poorchap's arm down was--'This is a bad break. Which of you girls will go and wake one of thewaggoners to fetch Doctor from Felscombe?''I will,' I said.But before I went I got out the port wine and the brandy, and badeLilian rub his hands a bit, and be sure she didn't let him see herlooking frightened when he come to.Why did I do that? Because the Lord made me to be a fool--giving himher pretty face to be the first thing he looked at when he come toafter that long, dreary spell on the Downs, and that black journeyinto the strange place where people go to when they faint.But everything that there was of me ached to be of some use to him.So I went, and once outside the door it seemed easier to take BrownBess and go myself to Felscombe than to rouse the waggoners, whowere but sleepy and slow-headed at the best of times. So I saddledBrown Bess myself and started.It was but a small way across the Downs that I had to lead her, itbeing almost as much as both of us could do to keep our feet in thefury of the wind. Then you go down the steep hill into the village,and as soon as we had passed the brow, it was easy and I mounted. Iwas down there in less time than it would have taken to rouse one ofthose heavy-headed carters; and Doctor, he come back with me,walking beside Brown Bess with his hand on her bridle, he not beingby any means loth to come out such a night, because, forsooth, itwas me that fetched him. Oh yes! I might have married him if I hadwanted to, and more than one better man than him; but that's neitherhere nor there.When we got in, we found Lilian kneeling by the sofa rubbing theyoung man's hands as I had told her to, and his eyes were open, andthere was a bit of colour in his cheek, and he was looking at herlike as any one but a fool might have known he would look; and theDoctor, he saw it too, and looked at me and grinned; and if I hadbeen God, that grin should have been his last. No, I don't mean tobe irreverent, but it's true, all the same.Well, the arm was set, and when he was a bit easier we settled roundthe fire, and he told us that his name was Edgar Linley, and he wasan artist, and had been painting the angry sunset that had comebefore that night's storm, and got caught in the dusk and so losthis way, as many do on our Downs at home, some not so lucky as himto see a light and get to it.This Mr. Linley had a way with him like no other man I ever see; notonly a way to please women with, but men too. I never saw my uncleso taken up with anybody; and the long and the short of it was thathe stayed there a month, and we nursed him; and at the end of themonth I knew no more than I had known that evening when I had seenhim looking at Lilian; but he and Lilian, they had learned a deal inthat time.And one evening I was at my bedroom window, and I see them coming upthe path in the red light of the evening, walking very closetogether, and I went down very quick to the parlour, where uncle wasjust come in to his tea and taking his big boots off, and I sat downthere, for I wanted to hear how they'd say it, though I knew wellenough what they had got to say. And they came in and he says, veryfrank and cheery--'Mr. Verinder,' he says, 'Lilian and I have made up our minds totake each other, with your consent, for better, for worse.'And uncle was as pleased as Punch; and as for me, I didn't believein God then, or I should have prayed Him to strike them both downdead as they stood.Why did I hate them so? And you call yourself a man and a parson,and one that knows the heart of man! Why did I hate them? Because Iloved him as no woman will ever love you, sir, if you'll pardon mebeing so bold, if you live to be a thousand.He would have understood all about everything with half what I havebeen telling you. As it is, I sometimes think that he understood,for he was very gentle with me and kind, not making too much ofLilian when I was by, yet never with a look or a word that wasn'tthe look and the word of her good, true lover; and she was veryhappy, for she loved him as much as that blue-and-white teacup kindof woman can love; and that's more than I thought for at the time.He was an orphan, and well off, and there was nothing to wait for,so the wedding was fixed for early in the new year; and I sewed ather new clothes with a marrow of lead in every bone of my fingers.A truly understanding person might get some meaning out of my wordswhen I say that I loved her in my heart all the time that I washating her; and the devil himself must have sent out my soul andmade use of the rest of me on that night I shall tell you aboutpresently.It was in the sharp, short, frosty days that brought in Christmasthat uncle came home one day from Lewes, looking thunder black, withan eye like fire and a mouth like stone. And he walked straight intothe kitchen where we three were making toast for tea, for Edgar wasone of us by this time, and lent a hand at all such little things asyoung folks can be merry over together. And uncle says--'Leave my house, young man; it's an honest house and a clean, and nofit place for a sinful swine. Get out,' he says, '"For without aredogs--"'With that he went on with a long text of Revelation that I won'trepeat to you, sir, for I know your ears are nice, and it's out ofone of the plainest-spoken parts of the Bible. Edgar turned as whiteas a sheet.'I swear to God,' he said, 'I wasn't to blame. I know what you haveheard, but if I can't whiten myself without blacking a womanI'll live and die as black as hell,' he says. 'But I don't needwhitening with those that love me,' he says, looking at Lilian andthen at me--oh! yes, he looked at me then.I said, 'No, indeed,' and so did Lilian; but she began to cry, andbefore we had time to think what it was all about, he had taken hishat and kissed Lilian and was gone. But he turned back at the dooragain.'I'll write to you,' he says to Lilian, 'but I don't cross this dooragain till those words are unsaid,' and so he was gone.Him being gone, uncle told us what he had heard in Lewes, and whatall folks there believed to be the truth; how young Edgar hadcarried on, as men may not, with a young married woman, the grocer'swife where he lodged, the end of it being that she drowned herselfin a pond near by, leaving as her last word that he was the cause ofit; and so he may have been, but not the way my uncle and the folkat Lewes thought, I'll stake my soul. God makes His troubles indozens; He don't make a new patterned one for every back. I wasn'tthe only woman who ever loved Edgar Linley without encouragement andwithout hope, and risked her soul because she was mad with lovinghim.But when uncle had told us all this with a black look on his face Inever had seen before, he said--'Girls, I have always been a clean liver, and I have brought you upin the fear of the Lord. I don't want to judge any man, and Lilianis of age and her own mistress. It's not for me to say what sheshall or shan't do, but if she marries that scoundrel, she has mycurse here and hereafter, and not one penny of my money, if it wasto save her from the workhouse.'After that we were sad enough at Whitecroft. But in two days come aletter from Edgar to Lilian; and when she had read it, she looked atme and said, 'O Isabel, whatever shall I do? I never can marrywithout dear uncle's consent,' and I turned and went from herwithout a word, because I couldn't bear to see her arguing andconsidering what to do, when the best thing in the world was to herhand for the taking.All the next week she cried all day and most of the night. Thenuncle went to London, my belief being it was to alter his will, sothat if Lilian married Edgar, she should feel it in her pocket,anyhow, and he was to stay all night, and the farm servants sleptout of the house, and we were without a maid at the time. So Lilianand me were left alone at Whitecroft.Lilian and I didn't sleep in one room now. I had made some excuse tosleep on the other side of the house, because I couldn't bear towake up of mornings and see her lying there so pretty, looking likea lily in her white nightgown and her fair hair all tumbled abouther face. It was more than any woman could have borne to see herlying there, and think that early in the new year it was him thatwould see her lying like that of a morning.And that night the place seemed very quiet and empty, as if therewas more room in it for being unhappy in. When Lilian had taken hercandle and gone up to bed, I walked through all the rooms below, asuncle's habit was, to see that all was fast for the night. It was asI set the bolt on the door of the little lean-to shed, where thefaggots were kept, that the devil entered into me all in a breath;and I thought of Lilian upstairs in her white bed, and of how theday must come, when he would see how pretty she looked and white,and I said to myself, 'No, it never shall, not if I burn for ittoo.'I hope you are understanding me. I sometimes think there issomething done to folks when they are learning to be parsons astakes out of them a part of a natural person's understandingness;and I would rather have told the doctor, but then he couldn't havetold me whether these are the kind of things Christ died to make HisFather forgive, and I suppose you can.What I did was this. I clean forgot all about uncle and how fond Iwas of Whitecroft, and how much I had always loved Lilian (and Iloved her then, though I know you can't understand me when I sayso), and I took all them faggots, dragging them across the sandedfloor of the kitchen, and I put them in the parlour in the littlewing to the left, and just under Lilian's bedroom, and I laid themunder the wooden corner cupboard where the best china is, and then Ipoured oil and brandy all over, and set it alight.Then I put on my hat and jacket, buttoning it all the way down, asquiet as if I was going down to the village for a pound of candles.And I made sure all was burning free, and out of the front door Iwent and up on to the Downs, and there I set me down under the wallwhere I could see Whitecroft.And I watched to see the old place burn down; and at first there wasno light to be seen.But presently I see the parlour windows get redder and redder, andsoon I knew the curtains had caught, and then there was a light inLilian's bedroom. I see the bars of the window as you do in theruined mill when the sun is setting behind it; and the light gotmore and more, till I see the stone above the front door that tellshow it was builded by one of our name this long time since; and atthat, as sudden as he had come, the devil left me, and I knew all ina minute that I was crouched against a wall, very cold, and my handshooked into my hair over my ears, and my knees drawn up under mychin; and there was the old house on fire, the dear old house, withLilian inside it in her little white bed, being burnt to death, andme her murderer! And with that I got up, and I remember I was stiff,as if I had been screwing myself all close together to keep fromknowing what it was I had been a-doing. I ran down the meadow to ourhouse faster than I ever ran in my life, in at the door, and up thestairs, all blue and black, and hidden up with coppery-colouredsmoke.I don't know how I got up them stairs, for they were beginning toburn too. I opened her door--all red and glowing it was inside! likean oven when you open it to rake out the ashes on a baking-day. AndI tried to get in, because all I wanted then was to save her--to gether out safe and sound, if I had to roast myself for it, because wehad been brought up together from little things, and I loved herlike a sister. And while I was trying to get my jacket off and roundmy head, something gave way right under my feet, and I seemed tofall straight into hell!I was badly burnt, and what handsomeness there was about my face waspretty well scorched out of it by that night's work; and I didn'tknow anything for a bit.When I come to myself, they had got me into bed bound up withcotton-wool and oil and things. And the first thing I did was to situp and try to tear them off.'You'll kill yourself,' says the nurse.'Thank you,' says I, 'that's the best thing I can do, now Lilian isdead.'And with that the nurse gives a laugh. 'Oh, that's what's on yourmind, is it?' says she. 'Doctor said there was something. MissLilian had run away that night to her young man. Lucky for her!She's luckier than you, poor thing! And they're married and livingin lodgings at Brighton, and she's been over to see you every day.'That day she came again. I lay still and let her thank me for havingtried to save her; for the farm men had seen the fire, and had comeup in time to see me go up the staircase to her room, and they hadpulled me out. She believes to this day the fire was an accident,and that I would have sacrificed my life for her. And so I would;she's right there.I wasn't going to make her unhappy by telling her the real truth,because she was as fond of me as I was of her; and she has been ashappy as the day is long, all her life long, and so she deserves.And as for me, I stayed on with uncle at the farm until he died ofthat bronchitis I told you of, and the little wing was built upagain, and the lichen has grown on it, so that now you could hardlytell it is only forty years old; and he left me all his money, andwhen he died, and Whitecroft went to a distant relation, I came hereto do what bits of good I could.And I have never told the truth about this to any one but you. Icouldn't have told it to any one as cared, but I know you don't. Sothat makes it easy.
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