We had been used to have Mr. Brent come into our houses, and to see him in the poorest cottages and the almshouses, with smiles and cheery words and money; but Mrs. James gave more than that, for she gave herself. I’ve seen those soft hands bind wounds I shrank from; and that delicate creature—I’ve seen her kneeling by beds of dying sinners, while her face grew white at what she saw and heard, and yet she praying over ’em, and, what’s more, loving ’em, till she made the way for the priest to come. And she laid out dead whom few of us would have touched for hire, and she listened to the stories of the sad and tiresome, and her smile was sunshine, and the very sight of her passing by lifted up our minds to God. Her husband thwarted her in nothing. What was there to thwart her in? He loved her, and she should do what she would in this work which was her heart’s joy.
Then we had been used to see Mr. James in church regular, weekday Mass and Sunday Mass; but Mrs. James was there any time, early mornings and noons and nights. I fancy she loved it better than the stately Hall. After she came, her husband added the great south transept window from Germany, and the organ that people came miles to hear; and he said it was her gift, not his. The window picture is a great Crucifixion and Our Lady standing by. You’ll understand better, Mr. Clarkson, ere I finish, what it says to Brentwood folk now.
The first year there was a daughter only; but the next there came a son. After that, for six long years there were no more children, but then another son saw the light. What rejoicings, what bonfires, what clanging of bells, there was! But ere night the clanging changed to tolling and the shouts to tears; for the child died. And when Mrs. James came among us again, very white and changed and feeble, we all knew that with Mr. James and Mr. William, we were seeing the last Brent Brothers, whatever our grandchildren might see.
However, she was spared, and Mr. James took heart of such grace as that, and said it would be Brent and Son, which sounded quite as well when one was used to it. And to make himself used to it—or to stifle the disappointment, as I really think—he began the Brent Bank. There had been a Brent Bank here for years past, and to it all Brentwood and half the country round trusted their earnings. Only a few really rich people had much to do with it, but men in moderate circumstances, young doctors and lawyers with growing families, widows, orphans, seamstresses, the factory people, laborers, thought there was no bank like that. Mr. James’ kind spirit showed itself there as elsewhere, and nobody felt himself too insignificant to come there, if only with a penny.
Often and often I sit here and wonder, Mr. Clarkson, why it all was—why God ever let it be—the shame and the sorrow and the suffering that came. I know Mr. James was lavish, but, if he spent much on himself, he spent much on others too; and he made God’s house as beautiful as his own. For a time it looked as if God’s blessing was on him; for he prospered year by year, and, except for his child’s dying and his wife’s frail health, his cup of joy seemed running over.
By and by came a year—you may just remember it, sir—a year of very hard times for the whole country. Banks broke, and old houses went by the board, and men were thrown out of work, and there was a cry of distress through all the land. But Brentwood folk hadn’t a thought of fear. Still, in that year, from the very first of it, something troubled me. Master was moody now and then; went up to the city oftener; had letters which he did not show to me, who had seen all his business correspondence and his father’s for thirty years and more. Sometimes he missed Mass, and presently I noted with a pang that he did not receive the Blessed Sacrament regular as he used. And Mrs. James was pale, and her eyes, that once were as bright and clear as sunshine, grew heavy and dark, and she looked more and more like the picture in her oratory; but it made one very sad somehow to see the likeness.
The hard times began at midsummer. The Lent after there was a mission of Dominican friars here. I was special busy that week, and kept at work till after midnight. One evening, about eight, Mr. James came hurriedly into the office and asked for the letters. He turned them over, looked blank, then said the half-past eleven mail would surely bring the one he wanted, and he should wait till then and go for it himself. For five minutes or so he tried to cast up some accounts; then, too nervous-like to be quiet longer, he said: “I’ll go and hear the sermon, Serle. It will serve to fill up the time.” And off he went.
The clock struck the hour and the half-hour, and the hour and the half-hour, and I heard the half-past eleven mail come in, and, soon after, Mr. James’ step again, but slow now, like one in deep thought. In he came, and I caught a glimpse of his face, pale and stern, with the lips hard set. He shut himself into his private room, and I heard him pacing up and down; then there came a pause, and he strode out again. He seemed very odd to me, but he tried to laugh, as he put down two slips for telegrams on my desk. “Which would you send?” said he.
One was, “Go on. I consent to all your terms.” The other was, “Stop. I will have nothing more to do with it, no matter what happens.”
Something told me in my heart that, though he was trying to pass this off in his old way like a joke, my master—my dear master—was in a great strait. I looked up and answered what he had not said at all to get an answer, with words which rose to my lips in spite of myself. Says I: “Send what Mrs. James would want you to send, sir.” And then his ruddy, kind face bleached gray like ashes, and he gave a groan, and the next minute he was gone.