Scenes of Clerical Life

an' all that, an' yit all the while kep' a will locked up from you, as tied you

  up as tight as aenything. I assure you," Mrs Jerome continued, dropping her

  voice in a confidential manner, "I know no more to this day about Mr Jerome's

  will, nor the child as is unborn. I've no fears about a income?I'm well awear Mr

  Jerome 'ud niver leave me stret for that; but I should like t'hev a thousand or

  two at my own disposial; it meks a widder a deal more looked on."

  Perhaps this ground of respect to widows might not be entirely without its

  influence on the Milby mind, and might do something towards conciliating those

  more aristocratic acquaintances of Janet's, who would otherwise have been

  inclined to take the severest view of her apostasy towards Evangelicalism.

  Errors look so very ugly in persons of small means?one feels they are taking

  quite a liberty in going astray; whereas people of fortune may naturally indulge

  in a few delinquencies. "They've got the money for it," as the girl said of her

  mistress who had made herself ill with pickled salmon. However it may have been,

  there was not an acquaintance of Janet's, in Milby, that did not offer her

  civilities in the early days of her widowhood. Even the severe Mrs Phipps was

  not an exception; for heaven knows what would become of our sociality if we

  never visited people we speak ill of: we should live, like Egyptian hermits, in

  crowded solitude.

  Perhaps the attentions most grateful to Janet were those of her old friend Mrs

  Crewe, whose attachment to her favourite proved quite too strong for any

  resentment she might be supposed to feel on the score of Mr Tryan. The little

  deaf old lady couldn't do without her accustomed visitor, whom she had seen grow

  up from child to woman, always so willing to chat with her and tell her all the

  news, though she was deaf; while other people thought it tiresome to shout in

  her ear, and irritated her by recommending ear-trumpets of various construction.

  All this friendliness was very precious to Janet. She was conscious of the aid

  it gave her in the self-conquest which was the blessing she prayed for with

  every fresh morning. The chief strength of her nature lay in her affection,

  which coloured all the rest of her mind: it gave a personal sisterly tenderness

  to her acts of benevolence; it made her cling with tenacity to every object that

  had once stirred her kindly emotions. Alas! it was unsatisfied, wounded

  affection that had made her trouble greater than she could bear. And now there

  was no check to the full flow of that plenteous current in her nature?no gnawing

  secret anguish?no overhanging terror?no inward shame. Friendly faces beamed on

  her; she felt that friendly hearts were approving her, and wishing her well, and

  that mild sunshine of goodwill fell beneficently on her new hopes and efforts,

  as the clear shining after rain falls on the tender leaf-buds of spring, and

  wins them from promise to fulfilment.

  And she needed these secondary helps, for her wrestling with her past self was

  not always easy. The strong emotions from which the life of a human being

  receives a new bias, win their victory as the sea wins his: though their advance

  may be sure, they will often, after a mightier wave than usual, seem to roll

  back so far as to lose all the ground they had made. Janet showed the strong

  bent of her will by taking every outward precaution against the occurrence of a

  temptation. Her mother was now her constant companion, having shut up her little

  dwelling and come to reside in Orchard Street; and Janet gave all dangerous keys

  into her keeping, entreating her to lock them away in some secret place.

  Whenever the too well-known depression and craving threatened her, she would

  seek a refuge in what had always been her purest enjoyment?in visiting one of

  her poor neighbours, in carrying some food or comfort to a sick-bed, in cheering

  with her smile some of the familiar dwellings up the dingy back-lanes. But the

  great source of courage, the great help to perseverance, was the sense that she

  had a friend and teacher in Mr Tryan: she could confess her difficulties to him;

  she knew he prayed for her; she had always before her the prospect of soon

  seeing him, and hearing words of admonition and comfort, that came to her

  charged with a divine power such as she had never found in human words before.

  So the time passed, till it was far on in May, nearly a month after her

  husband's death, when, as she and her mother were seated peacefully at breakfast

  in the dining-room, looking through the open window at the old-fashioned garden,

  where the grass-plot was now whitened with appleblossoms, a letter was brought

  in for Mrs Raynor.

  "Why, there's the Thurston post-mark on it," she said. "It must be about your

  Aunt Anna. Ah, so it is, poor thing; she's been taken worse this last day or

  two, and has asked them to send for me. That dropsy is carrying her off at last,

  I dare say. Poor thing! it will be a happy release. I must go, my dear?she's

  your father's last sister ?though I'm sorry to leave you. However, perhaps I

  shall not have to stay more than a night or two."

  Janet looked distressed as she said, "Yes, you must go, mother. But I don't know

  what I shall do without you. I think I shall run in to Mrs Pettifer, and ask her

  to come and stay with me while you're away. I'm sure she will."

  At twelve o'clock, Janet, having seen her mother in the coach that was to carry

  her to Thurston, called, on her way back, at Mrs Pettifer's, but found, to her

  great disappointment, that her old friend was gone out for the day. So she wrote

  on a leaf of her pocket-book an urgent request that Mrs Pettifer would come and

  stay with her while her mother was away; and, desiring the servant-girl to give

  it to her mistress as soon as she came home, walked on to the Vicarage to sit

  with Mrs Crewe, thinking to relieve in this way the feeling of desolateness and

  undefined fear that was taking possession of her on being left alone for the

  first time since that great crisis in her life. And Mrs Crewe, too, was not at

  home!

  Janet, with a sense of discouragement for which she rebuked herself as childish,

  walked sadly home again; and when she entered the vacant dining-room, she could

  not help bursting into tears. It is such vague undefinable states of

  susceptibility as this?states of excitement or depression, half mental, half

  physical?that determine many a tragedy in women's lives. Janet could scarcely

  eat anything at her solitary dinner; she tried to fix her attention on a book in

  vain; she walked about the garden, and felt the very sunshine melancholy.

  Between four and five o'clock, old Mr Pittman called, and joined her in the

  garden, where she had been sitting for some time under one of the great

  apple-trees, thinking how Robert, in his best moods, used to take little Mamsey

  to look at the cucumbers, or to see the Alderney cow with its calf in the

  paddock. The tears and sobs had come again at these thoughts; and when Mr

  Pittman approached her, she was feeling languid and exhausted. But the old

  gentleman's sight and sensibility were obtuse, and, to Janet's satisfaction,
he

  showed no consciousness that she was in grief.

  "I have a task to impose upon you, Mrs Dempster," he said, with a certain

  toothless pomposity habitual to him: "I want you to look over those letters

  again in Dempster's bureau, and see if you can find one from Poole about the

  mortgage on those houses at Dingley. It will be worth twenty pounds, if you can

  find it; and I don't know where it can be, if it isn't among those letters in

  the bureau. I've looked everywhere at the office for it. I'm going home now, but

  I'll call again tomorrow, if you'll be good enough to look in the mean time."

  Janet said she would look directly, and turned with Mr Pittman into the house.

  But the search would take her some time, so he bade her good-by, and she went at

  once to a bureau which stood in a small back room, where Dempster used sometimes

  to write letters and receive people who came on business out of office hours.

  She had looked through the contents of the bureau more than once; but to-day, on

  removing the last bundle of letters from one of the compartments, she saw what

  she had never seen before, a small nick in the wood, made in the shape of a

  thumb-nail, evidently intended as a means of pushing aside the movable back of

  the compartment. In her examination hitherto she had not found such a letter as

  Mr Pittman had described?perhaps there might be more letters behind this slide.

  She pushed it back at once, and saw?no letters, but a small spirit decanter,

  half full of pale brandy, Dempster's habitual drink.

  An impetuous desire shook Janet through all her members; it seemed to master her

  with the inevitable force of strong fumes that flood our senses before we are

  aware. Her hand was on the decanter; pale and excited she was lifting it out of

  its niche, when, with a start and a shudder, she dashed it to the ground, and

  the room was filled with the odour of the spirit. Without staying to shut up the

  bureau, she rushed out of the room, snatched up her bonnet and mantle which lay

  in the dining-room, and hurried out of the house.

  Where should she go? In what place would this demon that had re-entered her be

  scared back again? She walks rapidly along the street in the direction of the

  church. She is soon at the gate of the churchyard; she passes through it, and

  makes her way across the graves to a spot she knows?a spot where the turf was

  stirred not long ago, where a tomb is to be erected soon. It is very near the

  church wall, on the side which now lies in deep shadow, quite shut out from the

  rays of the westering sun by a projecting buttress.

  Janet sat down on the ground. It was a sombre spot. A thick hedge, surmounted by

  elm trees, was in front of her; a projecting buttress on each side. But she

  wanted to shut out even these objects. Her thick crape veil was down; but she

  closed her eyes behind it, and pressed her hands upon them. She wanted to summon

  up the vision of the past; she wanted to lash the demon out of her soul with the

  stinging memories of the bygone misery; she wanted to renew the old horror and

  the old anguish, that she might throw herself with the more desperate clinging

  energy at the foot of the cross, where the Divine Sufferer would impart divine

  strength. She tried to recall those first bitter moments of shame, which were

  like the shuddering discovery of the leper that the dire taint is upon him; the

  deeper and deeper lapse; the on-coming of settled despair; the awful moments by

  the bedside of her self-maddened husband. And then she tried to live through,

  with a remembrance made more vivid by that contrast, the blessed hours of hope,

  and joy, and peace that had come to her of late, since her whole soul had been

  bent towards the attainment of purity and holiness.

  But now, when the paroxysm of temptation was past, dread and despondency began

  to thrust themselves, like cold heavy mists, between her and the heaven to which

  she wanted to look for light and guidance. The temptation would come again? that

  rush of desire might overmaster her the next time?she would slip back again into

  that deep slimy pit from which she had been once rescued, and there might be no

  deliverance for her more. Her prayers did not help her, for fear predominated

  over trust; she had no confidence that the aid she sought would be given; the

  idea of her future fall had grasped her mind too strongly. Alone, in this way,

  she was powerless. If she could see Mr Tryan, if she could confess all to him,

  she might gather hope again. She must see him; she must go to him.

  Janet rose from the ground, and walked away with a quick resolved step. She had

  been seated there a long while, and the sun had already sunk. It was late for

  her to walk to Paddiford and go to Mr Tryan's, where she had never called

  before; but there was no other way of seeing him that evening, and she could not

  hesitate about it. She walked towards a footpath through the fields, which would

  take her to Paddiford without obliging her to go through the town. The way was

  rather long, but she preferred it, because it left less probability of her

  meeting acquaintances, and she shrank from having to speak to any one.

  The evening red had nearly faded by the time Janet knocked at Mrs Wagstaff's

  door. The good woman looked surprised to see her at that hour; but Janet's

  mourning weeds and the painful agitation of her face quickly brought the second

  thought, that some urgent trouble had sent her there.

  "Mr Tryan's just come in," she said. "If you'll step into the parlour, I'll go

  up and tell him you're here. He seemed very tired and poorly."

  At another time Janet would have felt distress at the idea that she was

  disturbing Mr Tryan when he required rest; but now her need was too great for

  that: she could feel nothing but a sense of coming relief, when she heard his

  step on the stair and saw him enter the room.

  He went towards her with a look of anxiety, and said, "I fear something is the

  matter. I fear you are in trouble."

  Then poor Janet poured forth her sad tale of temptation and despondency; and

  even while she was confessing she felt half her burthen removed. The act of

  confiding in human sympathy, the consciousness that a fellow-being was listening

  to her with patient pity, prepared her soul for that stronger leap by which

  faith grasps the idea of the divine sympathy. When Mr Tryan spoke words of

  consolation and encouragement, she could now believe the message of mercy; the

  water-floods that had threatened to overwhelm her rolled back again, and life

  once more spread its heaven-covered space before her. She had been unable to

  pray alone; but now his prayer bore her own soul along with it, as the broad

  tongue of flame carries upwards in its vigorous leap the little flickering fire

  that could hardly keep alight by itself.

  But Mr Tryan was anxious that Janet should not linger out at this late hour.

  When he saw that she was calmed, he said, "I will walk home with you now; we can

  talk on the way." But Janet's mind was now sufficiently at liberty for her to

  notice the signs of feverish weariness in his appearance, and she would not hear

  of causing him any further fa
tigue.

  "No, no," she said earnestly, "you will pain me very much?indeed you will, by

  going out again to-night on my account. There is no real reason why I should not

  go alone." And when he persisted, fearing that for her to be seen out so late

  alone might excite remark, she said imploringly, with a half sob in her voice,

  "What should I? what would others like me do, if you went from us? Why will you

  not think more of that, and take care of yourself?"

  He had often had that appeal made to him before, but to-night?from Janet's

  lips?it seemed to have a new force for him, and he gave way. At first, indeed,

  he only did so on condition that she would let Mrs Wagstaff go with her; but

  Janet had determined to walk home alone. She preferred solitude; she wished not

  to have her present feelings distracted by any conversation.

  So she went out into the dewy starlight; and as Mr Tryan turned away from her,

  he felt a stronger wish than ever that his fragile life might last out for him

  to see Janet's restoration thoroughly established?to see her no longer fleeing,

  struggling, clinging up the steep sides of a precipice whence she might be any

  moment hurled back into the depths of despair, but walking firmly on the level

  ground of habit. He inwardly resolved that nothing but a peremptory duty should

  ever take him from Milby?that he would not cease to watch over her until life

  forsook him.

  Janet walked on quickly till she turned into the fields; then she slackened her

  pace a little, enjoying the sense of solitude which a few hours before had been

  intolerable to her. The Divine Presence did not now seem far off, where she had

  not wings to reach it; prayer itself seemed superfluous in those moments of calm

  trust. The temptation which had so lately made her shudder before the

  possibilities of the future, was now a source of confidence; for had she not

  been delivered from it? Had not rescue come in the extremity of danger? Yes;

  Infinite Love was caring for her. She felt like a little child whose hand is

  firmly grasped by its father, as its frail limbs make their way over the rough

  ground; if it should stumble, the father will not let it go.

  That walk in the dewy starlight remained for ever in Janet's memory as one of

  those baptismal epochs, when the soul, dipped in the sacred waters of joy and

  peace, rises from them with new energies, with more unalterable longings.

  When she reached home she found Mrs Pettifer there, anxious for her return.

  After thanking her for coming, Janet only said, "I have been to Mr Tryan's; I

  wanted to speak to him;" and then remembering how she had left the bureau and

  papers, she went into the back-room, where, apparently, no one had been since

  she quitted it; for there lay the fragments of glass, and the room was still

  full of the hateful odour. How feeble and miserable the temptation seemed to her

  at this moment! She rang for Kitty to come and pick up the fragments and rub the

  floor, while she herself replaced the papers and locked up the bureau.

  The next morning, when seated at breakfast with Mrs Pettifer, Janet said,

  "What a dreary, unhealthy-looking place that is where Mr Tryan lives! I'm sure

  it must be very bad for him to live there. Do you know, all this morning, since

  I've been awake, I've been turning over a little plan in my mind. I think it a

  charming one?all the more, because you are concerned in it."

  "Why, what can that be?"

  "You know that house on the Redhill road they call Holly Mount; it is shut up

  now. That is Robert's house; at least, it is mine now, and it stands on one of

  the healthiest spots about here. Now, I've been settling in my own mind, that if

  a dear good woman of my acquaintance, who knows how to make a home as

  comfortable and cozy as a bird's nest, were to take up her abode there, and have

  Mr Tryan as a lodger, she would be doing one of the most useful deeds in all her