He took out the money, and she took it in her hand, and then let it drop through her fingers to the ground. The clink of the money sounded strange in the night. They did not speak to each other. They scarcely seemed to breathe. And then, with a passionate movement, she threw her arms round him, and broke out into weeping, with her head upon his breast.
‘Poor Nat!’ she cried out to him, ‘Nat, Nat—poor Nat!—and so you would be giving your last poor coins to me. I don’t want them, dear. I can get work to do in London. I won’t do more hurt to you, who are the only friend I have. Nat, I will confess to you. I opened the Squire’s letter, although I knew it was wrong—I did, I did!—And the bank note dropped out, and I never noticed it, until I had fastened the letter and given it to you. I’m a wicked girl. I didn’t care if I did you harm—I wanted to see what Mr Lee wrote of James and me .... and now James is .... dead .... and I’m a wanderer again, and I must go to London, and live by my singing there .... I must stay here to-night .... though I know that James is dead .... I knew it from the first .... he is dead .... oh, he is dead .... and then I will get away from this place and the river—and you will never see me, or hear of me again.’
After a while, still clinging to him, ‘I will write to the Squire, and send him the note. It doesn’t hurt now if I do harm to myself, and if I tell him the truth I hope it will do you good .... And you mustn’t think hardly of me, poor, foolish .... though I have been naughty, and have led you into wrong .... I must kiss your hand .... oh, I cannot help my crying .... I want to tell you that you have been kind to me .... Oh, don’t tremble so much, dear, I cannot bear to feel it .... I have no other friend in the world .... good-bye, good-bye ....’ Blind, suffocated, almost past all consciousness, he felt that she slipped from his arms, and then she was gone.
An hour later, in intensest midnight blackness, through which the lights in the streets shone at intervals, Nat found his way through the night-time, with faltering footsteps, as one scarce waked from a dream. He must find his sister, his mother, and give them what help he could; in time he might be able to think how to help himself. The great bell had tolled, and now every bell was ringing .... he must get back to the river .... he went on through the night.
[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.