“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.