‘They’ll have a fine day,’ said Annie, very softly—she had not spoken on the subject before, but she knew she would be understood—these were the first words that had passed between the brother and sister since their mother had left them and they had been alone. ‘I’m glad to think so, they’ve been so good and kind, such kind friends to us, though it will be different now. Tim came to see me last night. I was very glad to see him. He thought me altered, I know, for he looked so hard at me.’
Nat did not answer—it may be that he remembered why, on his part, he could not go to see the bride; it must have been shame that brought the colour to his face, for he had been pale and heavy-eyed before. But the feeling that his sister had been communicative, although she had always previously been more than reserved to him, stirred him with a sense of answering sympathy. He spoke with an effort, he had not spoken much that evening since he had come back from his visit to the Squire. Both his mother and sister had understood without difficulty why he should be silent with regard to that experience.
‘I’ve seen t’ Squire, Annie,’ he said now, with an effort. ‘It’s been very cutting. Ye know that I went to him? I’ve never seen him sin’ that last night o’ the year. He seems to be older, even in that little time. He said he was glad Mr Lee had given me learning, that Mr Lee had told him I should be a good business lad. And he wasn’t angry. He talked as if he was sorry—as he’d been more hasty nor he should ha’ been wi’ me. But I couldn’t answer him a bit, I was so afeard o’ crying—I think I’ve not felt so bad in all my life.’
Annie moved her chair in the least degree closer to him, whilst the glance of her dark eyes rested on his face, her eyes which had grown so large, and sad, and gentle, during all these months that she had been an invalid. He understood the movement, and after a while he went on speaking, with the manner of one who is relieved to be able to speak.
‘It seems to make a differ—my going away to London, although I’ve not been much at home all these months. I was so close at Lindum, an’ I could think of home, even when I was at office-work or classes, or the rest. It won’t be the same when I’m at Westminster, in that big place o’ business where there’s so much to do—now that t’ home ’ll be gone, an’ mother’s weak an’ poorly, an’ ye’ll be livin’ wi’ her an’ Mr Lee. It’s cut me a deal too, to be thinkin’ about father—they say he’s real silly sin’ his illness, an’ll not be himsel’ again—he’ll have to be allays in some kind o’ keepin’, although they don’t think as he’ll be dangerous. I’m thinkin’—I’m his son—I felt desperate last winter—it wouldn’t ha’ ta’en much to make me drink like him. It makes me afraid to go away to London—afraid like and sorry when I think what last year has been.’
‘Nat,’ said Annie suddenly, ‘I mind me of a day when Alice took me to be with her at a class—it’s been on my mind sin’, the confessin’ an’ t’ prayin’, an’ then t’ hymn-singin’ an’ all t’ rest of it. You an’ me’s both sorry .... I think that we are sorry .... shall we kneel down together an’ say a prayer to-night?’
‘I’d like to,’ he answered, readily enough, ‘only I don’t understan’ what sort o’ prayer to say. We can’t make up prayers like as t’ preachers do. An’ t’ prayer-books is all together at t’ church. There’s the General Confession,’ he added, as a new idea struck him; ‘we’ve heard that often, I should think we remember it. It’s all about being sorry, an’ doin’ better, an’ t’ like. I should think it’s possible that it might do for us.’
‘Then we’ll have it,’ said Annie, agreeing readily, ‘we’ll kneel down together side by side upon the rug. You may say the words first as if you was t’ preacher, an’ I’ll be repeatin’ them as t’ people do. It’ll do me good .... I’m sure I’ve been bad eno’ .... it’ll maybe make my heart a bit lighter that’s such a weight to me.’
They arranged a chair, and knelt by it side by side, the brother and sister, still so young in years, and yet with such evident traces of recent trouble that their young faces had assumed an older look. Nat’s features were already in the transition-time, and some of the charm of his boyish grace was gone; but Annie was yet more lovely than before, though her illness had left her pale and delicate; and the black dress that hung so loosely on her figure set off the bright hair which had not yet a widow’s cap. They knelt together with their clasped hands almost touching, and after a pause of a minute Nat began; the simple gravity of his boyish earnestness breathing as with new meaning the familiar words:
‘Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Thy holy laws....’