{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_62295/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_62295","id":"gutenberg_62295","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62295","summary":null,"tags":["Bildungsromans","Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","English fiction -- 20th century","Families -- Fiction","Governesses -- Fiction","Love stories","Orphans -- Fiction","Religion -- Fiction","Young women -- Fiction"],"text":"Note: Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      https://archive.org/details/maryleeden00dennuoft\n\n\n\n\n\nMARY LEE\n\n\n      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n_NEW BORZOI NOVELS FALL, 1922_\n\n\n    THE QUEST\n      _Pio Baroja_\n    THE ROOM\n      _G. B. Stern_\n    ONE OF OURS\n      _Willa Cather_\n    A LOVELY DAY\n      _Henry C\u00e9ard_\n    MARY LEE\n      _Geoffrey Dennis_\n    TUTORS' LANE\n      _Wilmarth Lewis_\n    THE PROMISED ISLE\n      _Laurids Bruun_\n    THE RETURN\n      _Walter de la Mare_\n    THE BRIGHT SHAWL\n      _Joseph Hergesheimer_\n    THE MOTH DECIDES\n      _Edward Alden Jewell_\n    INDIAN SUMMER\n      _Emily Grant Hutchings_\n\n      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n\nMARY LEE\n\nby\n\nGEOFFREY DENNIS\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNew York\nAlfred A. Knopf\nMCMXXII\n\nCopyright, 1922, by\nAlfred A. Knopf, Inc.\n\nPublished, August, 1922\n\nSet up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton,\n    N. Y.\nPaper (Warren's) furnished by Henry Lindenmeyr & Sons, New York, N. Y.\nBound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass.\n\nManufactured in the United States of America\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n      I I AM BORN                                  3\n\n     II BEAR LAWN                                 14\n\n    III CHILD OF PRIVILEGE                        24\n\n     IV I GO TO MEETING                           36\n\n      V I GO TO SCHOOL                            55\n\n     VI CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, THE SCARLET WOMAN\n          AND THE GREAT GOD BENAMUCKEE            73\n\n    VII THE END OF THE WORLD                      87\n\n   VIII SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH                 95\n\n     IX AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON                 101\n\n      X OLD LETTERS                              120\n\n     XI EXTRAORDINARY MEETING FOR PRAYER, PRAISE\n          AND PURGING                            135\n\n    XII THE GREAT DISCLOSURE                     144\n\n   XIII I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE                      158\n\n    XIV I BECOME CURIOUS                         172\n\n     XV WESTWARD HO!                             179\n\n    XVI ROBBIE                                   192\n\n   XVII CHRISTMAS NIGHT                          206\n\n  XVIII NEW YEAR'S NIGHT                         223\n\n    XIX BEAR LAWN AGAIN                          233\n\n     XX DIARY                                    243\n\n    XXI I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN                  253\n\n   XXII THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER               265\n\n  XXIII WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD THE HEART OF\n          WOMAN                                  282\n\n   XXIV PROSPECTS                                301\n\n    XXV I SAY GOOD-BYE                           312\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n   XXVI CH\u00c2TEAU VILLEBECQ                        319\n\n  XXVII MARY THE SECOND                          327\n\n XXVIII LAYING-ON OF HANDS                       336\n\n   XXIX HAPPY FAMILY                             340\n\n    XXX CARDBOARD                                356\n\n   XXXI WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR               362\n\n  XXXII PAREE!                                   370\n\n XXXIII I BECOME AN HEIRESS                      377\n\n  XXXIV I BECOME A DAUGHTER                      381\n\n   XXXV WAY OF A SERPENT UPON A ROCK             386\n\n  XXXVI THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES            389\n\n XXXVII WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA    393\n\nXXXVIII DEATHBED                                 408\n\n  XXXIX END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER'S     412\n\n     XL END OF THREE VISIONS: NAPOLEON'S         420\n\n    XLI END OF THREE VISIONS: MINE               424\n\n   XLII TWIN DEATHBEDS                           427\n\n  XLIII ONE LONG PRERCESSION O' DEATHBEDS        431\n\n   XLIV CHRISTMAS NIGHT                          434\n\n    XLV WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID                 439\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I: I AM BORN\n\n\nI was born at Tawborough on March the Second, 1848.\n\nIt seems to have been a great year in the history books. Fires of\nrevolution sweeping over Europe; half the capitals aflame. From Prague\nto Palermo, from Paris to Pesth, the peoples rising against their\nrulers. Wars and rumours of wars; civil strife everywhere. Radicals in\nPrussia, revolutionaries in Italy, rebels in Austria, republicans in\nFrance. Even in old England we had our chartists.\n\nAll such troubles failed to touch Tawborough. What did she know of it\nall, or care if she knew? She was a good old peaceful English country\ntown, with her own day's work to do. The great world might go its way\nfor all she cared--a wild and noisy way it seemed. She would go hers.\n\nNot that Tawborough had always been without a say in England's affairs.\nShe had indeed a long and honourable history. At the dawn of time there\nwas a settlement in the marshes where the little stream of Yeo empties\nitself into the Taw: a primitive village of wattled huts, known to\nthe Britons as Artavia. The Phoenicians record the name for us, and\ndescribe the place as a great mart for their commerce. Here the tin of\nthe western mines was bartered against the rich products of the East:\ncamphire and calamus, spikenard and saffron, fine linen and purple\nsilk. This was the origin of Tawborough market, which is the first in\nDevonshire to this day. Artavia seems to have been an important seat\nof the old British worship. The see of the Arch-Druid of the West was\nnear at hand in the Valley of the Rocks at Lynton; from the sacred\noak-groves above the Taw on a clear day the Druids could see the fires\nof the great altar on the Promontory of Hercules--Hartland Point they\ncall it now.\n\nReligion, indeed, in one way or another, seems to have coloured most of\nthe big events of the town's history. The next great fight was between\npagans and Christian men.\n\nIt was the foeman from the North, threatening the men of Wessex with\ndesolation. One day the terrified townsfolk heard clanging in their\nears the great ivory horns of the Northmen, and beheld the blood-red\nbanners sailing up the Taw. One of the standards had upon it a Raven.\nThen the Englishmen knew their foe for the wild Hubba, King of the\nVikings; since the Raven floated always at his mast. The banner was of\ncrimson. It had been worked by the King's three sisters in a noontide\nand blessed by a strange Icelandic wizard, who endowed the Raven sewn\nupon it with this magical gift: that she clapped her wings to announce\nsuccess to the Viking arms, and drooped them to presage failure. Never\ntill this day had the black wings drooped; they drooped this winter's\nmorning. So the English took heart. Odin, Earl of Devon, sallied forth\nfrom Kenwith Castle, defeated and slew King Hubba, and captured the\nmagic banner. Then came peace for a while. King Alfred, full of piety,\ncame to Tawborough and set up the great Mound by the Castle. King\nAthelstan gave the town a charter, and housed himself in a magnificent\npalace at Umberleigh hard by.\n\nIn the wake of the Normans came the religious orders. The Cluniacs\nbuilt a monastery in the town, the Benedictines another at Pilton just\noutside. With the monks came light and learning, better lives and\nmilder ways. Tawborough became rich and prosperous. Her trade excelled\nthat of Bristol. Her fair and market were famous \"tyme out of mynde.\"\nFor many years the Taw--that \"greate, hugy, mighty, perylous and\ndredful water\"--became a highway for the ships of all nations.\n\nWhen the New World was found, Englishmen sailed west for glory. Devon\nled the way, Tawborough men among the foremost, and Tawborough ships\ndid valiant deeds against the Invincible Armada. Those were the\ngreat days of England. The townsfolk were all for the new religion.\nSpaniard and Papist were twin-children of the devil. A murrain on\nboth! They favoured the Puritan party in the civil wars, stood out\nagainst the rest of the county, and shouted for the Parliament. Though\nwhen the Royalists took the town and gay Prince Charles made it his\nheadquarters, the townspeople were charmed with His Merry Highness;\nand he, as he told Lord Clarendon, with them. All the courtiers were\nof the same mind. Lord Clarendon himself declared that Tawborough was\n\"a very fine sweet town as ever I saw,\" while Lady Fanshawe thought\nthat the cherry pies they made there \"with their sort of cream\" were\nthe best things that man, or woman, could eat. Gay John Gay, who wrote\nthe Beggar's Opera, showed to the world the fair and likeable character\nof his native town, which at heart, however, was always of the godly\nserious-minded quality, Puritan to the core. No town in England gave a\nwarmer welcome to the poor Huguenots, who were flying from King Lewis.\nOne Sunday morning as the townsfolk were coming forth from Church\nthey saw against the sky--not this time the scarlet banners of the\nNorth--the brown sails of an old French schooner, bearing up the Taw a\nband of exiled French Puritans, weary and wretched after their voyage.\nTawborough found every one of them a home. In return the grateful\nFrenchmen taught the natives new ways of cloth-weaving, which sent the\nfame of Tawborough Bays through all the land.\n\nLater came a change, a new century, the reign of King Coal; and\nTawborough, like many another historic Western town, sank into\ncomparative decay. What did the new industrial cities know of such as\nher, or care if they knew? For her part, she was indifferent to their\nignorance or their indifference alike. She was a good old English\ncountry town with her own day's work to do. Troubles, invasions,\nvicissitudes had assailed her before. New blood, Saxon, Danish, Norman,\nHuguenot had coursed through her veins. Her dead had buried their\ndead. The people pass, the place alone is abiding.... Abiding, yet not\neternal; for there comes the day when the old earth will fall into the\nsun.... Meanwhile, Town Tawborough had her daily life to live, her\ntownsfolk had theirs.\n\n\nTwo of them, indeed, were living theirs with plenty of zest, somewhere\nin the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Jael and Hannah\nVickary were the daughters of an old sea-captain, Ebenezer Vickary of\nTorribridge. He and his brother had three or four vessels of their own,\ntrading with the Indies in sugar and molasses, or with the Spanish\nMain, as it then still was, in logwood and mahogany. The brother died\nin Cuba of the yellow fever. Soon afterwards Ebenezer gave up the\nsea, settled down in Tawborough, and died in his time. He left his\ntwo daughters enough money to live upon in the quiet style of those\ndays, together with a big dwelling house by the old North Gate. Here\nJael and Hannah Vickary lived alone, with an old servant whose years\nwere unknown and unnumbered, and whose wages were six pounds a year.\nThey had a few friends and visitors, faithful women of the Parish\nChurch, chief among whom were the Other Six of \"the Seven Old Maids of\nTawborough.\" By a strange coincidence seven female children had been\nborn in Tawborough on August the First 1785, all of whom had risen to\nbe devout handmaidens of the Lord in the work of the Parish Church,\nshining lights around the central figure of the Vicar, and all of whom\nhad dwindled into a sure spinsterhood. \"We are the wise virgins,\" said\nJael Vickary, their leader and spiritual chief, in whom the scorn of\nall menfolk except the Vicar (who had a meek wife and twelve children)\namounted to a prophet's passion. This passion was shared in various\ndegrees by the Other Six, to wit: Miss Lucy Clarke, Miss Fanny Baker,\nMiss Keturah Crabb, Miss Sarah Tombstone, and last but not least the\nHeavenly Twins, the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker. The Twins were\nthe only regular visitors at Northgate House. There were a few others,\nno relatives among them. Jael and Hannah had indeed an elder brother,\nJohn: Ebenezer's only son. He had gone to London as a boy, worked his\nway up in a wholesale sugar house in the City, and become passing\nrich. His sisters were kept aware of his existence only by receiving\noccasional presents and more occasional letters. He never married.\nThus it was that his death, if nothing so crude as a self-acknowledged\nsource of financial hope to Miss Jael, would nevertheless have been\nborne by her with true Christian fortitude.\n\nIf alike in a salt and shrewdness of personality unknown to our end\nof the century, in most ways the two sisters differed as much as two\nhuman beings can. Miss Jael was hard, Miss Hannah kindly; Miss Jael\nstern, Miss Hannah gentle; Miss Jael was feared, Miss Hannah loved.\nThough Hannah was less than eighteen months her sister's junior,\nthis unbridgeable gulf enabled Miss Jael throughout life to refer to\nMiss Hannah as \"a young woman,\" and to treat her accordingly. Then,\nbehold, in the year 1822, when both were nearer forty than thirty, the\nYoung Woman brazenly gave ear to the suit of one Edward Lee, an old\nsea-captain, who had sailed under her father, and was twenty years her\nsenior. Jael mocked (Why did he choose her? asked her heart bitterly);\nyet stayed on at Northgate House, when Captain Lee came to live there,\nto bully and bludgeon the dear old man into his grave. This procedure\ntook but five years. The old man died, leaving to his widow two little\ngirls and a boy: Rachel, Martha and Christian.\n\nIn the godlier activities of Tawborough life Jael and her widowed\nsister were leading lights, with the parish church as General\nHeadquarters of their operations. Miss Jael was the vicar's right-hand\n_man_. She ran his poor club, his guild, his Dorcas-meeting, effacing\ncompletely the meek many-childrened little lady of the Rectory. He\nthought her a queen among women, a tower set upon a rock.\n\nAll this was in the twenties and thirties of the century, ere yet\nthe Church of England had taken her earliest step on the swift steep\npath to Rome. The same wave of evangelical fervour that had swelled\nWesley's great following had strengthened also the Church from which\nthey broke away. This fervour, whether Methodist or Established, did\nnot however go nearly far enough for certain pious souls, especially\nin the West country, who formed themselves into little bodies for the\nWorship of God in the strictest and simplest Gospel fashion. \"They\ncontinued steadfastly in the apostles' doctrine and fellowship, and in\nbreaking of bread, and in prayer.\" They called themselves the Saints,\nor more modestly the Brethren. Outsiders called them the Plymouth\nBrethren--they flourished in the great seaport--or more profanely,\nthe Plymouth Rocks. They were drawn from all communions and no\ncommunion, if principally from the Established Church; from all classes\nand conditions, the humbler trades-folk perhaps predominating. In\nTawborough they were especially active. From the days of the primitive\nDruids away through the long story of missionaries and monks, seafaring\nProtestants and Huguenot exiles, here was a town that took her religion\nneat. She preferred the good Calvin flavouring, and thus it was that\nthe Plymouth evangel sent up a savoury smell in her nostrils. There\nwere literally hundreds of converts. The Parish Church lost some of\nits leading members. Arose the cry \"The Church in danger!\"; and of\nall who responded, most valiant was the Vicar's right-hand man. She\nstemmed the tide of deserters with loins girt for battle. Like St.\nPaul, she breathed out threatenings and slaughter against the new\nsect. She encouraged the faithful, visited the wavering, anathematized\ndeserters. To crown her efforts she counselled the vicar to summon\na great Church Defence Meeting in the Parish Room, to rally and\nre-affirm the confidence of the faithful. The Vicar agreed. The hour\nof commencement saw a right goodly and godly assembly foregathered\ntogether. On the platform sat a Canon of Exeter, the old Marquess of\nExmoor, several county bigwigs, the Mayor and the Churchwardens. Seven\no'clock struck, the Vicar was about to open the proceedings, everything\nwas ready--except--except that two honoured places on the platform (in\nthose days a place on a platform was for a woman an honour indeed) were\nnot yet occupied. Miss Vickary and her sister were late. The Vicar\nhesitated. There was a distinguished company, true: but start the\nmeeting without its guiding spirit--never! Give her five minutes....\nSome one handed the Vicar an envelope. He opened it, read through the\ncontents, and fainted then and there.\n\nHow the reverend gentleman was brought round from his swoon by the\njoint endeavours of the Canon, the Marquess, two Churchwardens, nine\nladies and a bottle of sal-volatile; how the great Church Defence\nMeeting fizzled to an inglorious end; and how Jael Vickary and Hannah\nLee were baptized in the Taw in the presence of three thousand five\nhundred spectators, there is no need to relate here. The facts were\nwell enough known to the older generation in the town. Some say\nthat the Vicar made a last despairing effort to retain his apostate\nright-hand man; that, with tears in his eyes, he went down on his knees\nbefore her. If so, as Hannah wickedly said, he was the only man who\never did so, and in any case he achieved nothing. On the contrary The\nGreat Betrayal encouraged wholesale desertions. The Other Six deserted\n_en masse_.\n\nHenceforward Jael Vickary's life was occupied with two main things:\nbuilding up the new sect, and bringing up her sister's family. She\nfilled the vacant post of father with thoroughness and vigour. Her\nmethod was the rod, or to be accurate the thorned stick, and a horrible\nweapon it was. Hannah approved the method in moderation, though she\ncould never have applied it herself. Much of her life, indeed, was\nspent in protecting her children from her sister. Rachel, the eldest,\nwas best beloved. She was a sweet, gentle child; bright, tender and\ngay. Martha was quieter, even morose. Christian was a peevish child,\nweak and ailing from birth. With no husband to help her, and her sister\non the scold from morn till night, Hannah Lee's life was not an easy\none. She gave her two daughters the best schooling in Devonshire, as\nschooling for girls went in those days; so that when they grew up they\nwere able to take positions as governesses in the best families of the\ncounty. Rachel went to Woolthy Hall to teach Guy, the Lord Tawborough's\nfive year old heir. Martha was employed by the Groves, of Grove House\nnear Exeter, to begin the education of their daughter. The two girls'\nattainments and appearance explained their good fortune. Rachel in\nparticular was a refined and attractive young woman, with bright eyes,\na peerless skin, and a gentle winning expression. Dressed oftenest in a\ndove-coloured cotton robe, she had a Quakerish charm, simple yet sure.\n\nHannah was left alone at Tawborough with Jael and young Christian.\nAs the years passed, life turned greyer. When the Devon and Three\nCounties' Bank collapsed, nearly half the household income disappeared.\nJael's imperiousness grew with her years, while her temper soured.\nChristian was in a decline, dying slowly before his mother's eyes. Then\ncame Martha's marriage. She had fallen in with one Simeon Greeber, a\nretired chemist, who lived over at Torribridge--the Taw's twin-river's\nport, and Tawborough's immemorial rival. This Greeber was the local\nleader of the extreme wing of the Saints, the Close or Exclusive\nBrethren; a man twice Martha Lee's age, and one who filled her aunt and\nher mother with a special sense of dislike and mistrust. Against their\nwill she married him, gave up her excellent post with the Grove family,\nand went to live at Torribridge.\n\nHannah's consolation was always Rachel, whom she loved most dearly.\nThen, in its turn, came Rachel's marriage.\n\nAt Woolthy Hall the young governess had come into contact with Lord\nTawborough's cousin, Mr. Philip Traies, who was a frequent if not\nwelcome guest. He had served in the Navy, but had left the service\nunder doubtful circumstances. He had led a scandalous life and earned\na reputation to match it. A clear-cut handsome mouth set in a proud\naristocratic face, a fine bearing, a fine speech, and an honoured name,\ndeluded many and were his own undoing. In ill odour with his family\nand his Maker, he decided to come to terms with the latter. At the age\nof forty, he joined the Plymouth Brethren. When the Devil turns saint\nhe does a very sharp round-about, and no withered Anglo-Indian colonel\nwho communed with the Saints in his dotage to ensure himself as gay\na time in the next world as he had passed in this, ever excelled Mr.\nPhilip Traies in fervour and piety. He worshipped occasionally with\nthe Tawborough Saints, who were duly honoured. Sometimes here, and\nsometimes at his cousin's, he met Rachel Lee, at this time a girl of\ntwenty-one. He bestowed upon her the favour of eager kindly patronage,\nas such men will; though if she were beneath him in station, and his\nequal in manners and good looks, she was far above him in everything\nelse: goodness and purity and wholeness of heart. Quite how it happened\nnobody knew; but one day Rachel came home from Woolthy Hall, and said\nto her mother, \"I am going to marry Mr. Philip Traies.\"\n\nHannah entreated. A \"good\" match with a bad man had no attraction for\nher. She pleaded with Rachel. Aunt Jael would not stoop to plead; she\ngave her niece instead a plain outline of Mr. Philip Traies' past.\n\n\"I know,\" said the girl, and murmured something about \"reforming\" him.\n\nNeither mother nor aunt achieved her surrender. Pleading and\nplain-speaking did nothing, nor ever do. The wedding took place at\nthe registry office, as in those days the Brethren's Meeting Houses\nwere not licensed for solemnization of marriages, and neither bride\nnor bridegroom would enter a church or chapel: temples of Antichrist.\nHannah sat through the ceremony with a queer sense of foreboding,\nof sickness, and coming sorrow; an order of sentiment which, as a\nsensible Devon woman with no tomfool tombstone fancies ever in her\nhead, in sixty years she had not known. Immediately after the ceremony,\nat the registry office door, the bridegroom suddenly loosened himself\nfrom the bride's arm, and walked sharply away without saying a word.\nNobody knew why. Everybody stared. The wedding breakfast at Northgate\nHouse began without him. They waited; he did not come. After an hour\nthe tension became unbearable. The guests whispered in groups; Rachel\nand her mother bore already on their brows the sorrow of the years\nto come. Aunt Jael's face was a gloomy triumphant \"I told you so.\"\nPastries were nibbled, wine was sipped; the joy-feast continued. After\nnearly two hours a bell rang, and the bridegroom appeared.\n\n\"Your explanation?\" asked Hannah. Rachel dared not look.\n\n\"Oh, I had another woman to see. A glass of sherry please. Besides, it\namused me.\"\n\nHe took her away to his house at Torquay. Their married life\nwas wretched from the start. Among many evil passions these two\npredominated in Mr. Philip Traies: desire and cruelty. Here was a\nlovely and gentle girl who would satisfy both. The first was soon\nappeased (shattering love in her heart once and for all), the second\nnever. Cruelty is insatiable. With this man it was a devouring passion.\nIt is doubtful perhaps if he was sane. Taunts, foulness, sneers.... He\nstarved her sometimes, taunted her with her lowlier birth, engaged the\nservants on the condition of ill-treating their mistress, dismissed\nthem if they wavered. All the time he talked religion. The knees\nof his elegant trousers were threadbare with prayer. He could fit\na text to every taunt. Then a baby-boy came to cheer the sinking\nheart. A few hours after the child was born, when the young mother\nlay in the agony and weakness she alone can know, Mr. Philip Traies\nentered the room--with a gentler word to-day surely?--no, with this:\n\"So this is how you keep your fine promises to make a good lady of\nthe house, a busy housewife and the rest of it\"--he raised his voice\nsavagely--\"idling in bed at four in the afternoon. _Get up, you idle\nbitch!_\" Leaning over the end-rail, he spat in her face.\n\nThe baby soon died. He taunted her with nursing it badly; and doubled\nevery cruelty he knew save blows.\n\n\"Strike me,\" she said once.\n\nHer patience was a fool's, a saint's, a loving woman's; her goodness,\nif not her spirits, unfailing. In writing home she made the best of\nthings. But her heart was broken, her spirit wasting away.\n\n\"Why did you marry me?\" she asked.\n\n\"To break your spirit,\" was the amused reply.\n\n\"Then your marriage has fulfilled its purpose,\" she said wearily. \"My\nspirit is broken. Now I can go home.\"\n\nThat night she wrote to Hannah. The letter is faded, and stained with\nthree women's tears, wife's, mother's, daughter's. \"Dearest Mother,\"\nshe wrote, \"I am ill and weary. Another little child is coming, but I\nmay not live for it to be born. I can leave him without failing in my\nwife's duty now, for the end is very near. I am coming home to die.\nYour loving broken-hearted Daughter.\"\n\nNext day she packed for home.\n\n\"Deserting me, are you? Fine Jezebel ways! A good Christian wifely\nthing to do, I'm sure. I thought we were proud of doing our duty.\"\n\nHis sneers did not move her now. She was going home to die.\n\nNorthgate House was a dismal place to return to. It was a wet cheerless\nwinter. Hannah was tired and heart-sore. Christian was dying. Jael\nwas evil-tempered, scolding harshly: her comfort to her mother and\ndaughter was still \"I told you so.\" Rachel went straight to bed. In a\nfew days Christian died, a sickly pitiful boy of twenty. \"It is the\nLord's will,\" said his mother. Hannah had everything to do, for Simeon\nGreeber would not let Martha come over from Torribridge, and Jael took\nto her bed with a convenient fit of the ague. Faith in the eternal\nlove of God was Hannah's only stay. Always, ever, \"It was the Lord's\nwill.\" This sufficed her, though the times were bitter. The day after\nChristian's funeral was wet and wintry: March the Second 1848. Rachel\nwas twenty-four. Three years ago she had been a happy healthy girl. Now\nshe was a dying broken woman. The morning of that day she gave birth to\na daughter. Then she was very weak. Her eyes closed, yet she seemed to\nsee something.\n\n\"What do you see, Rachel, my dear?\" asked her mother.\n\nThe spirit was already half away, looking through the golden gates of\nHeaven.\n\n\"There is a little angel born. I see her in God's cradle. _My_ little\nangel, God's little angel. I shall be with her always--though far away.\nI see ... the King in His beauty ... I behold the land ... that is very\nfar off.\"\n\nHer face was radiant as a lover's, yet sad as Love is. Hannah could not\nreply. The dying woman seemed to sleep. Her mother watched. An hour\npassed. Rachel opened her eyes.\n\n\"Mother.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear.\"\n\n\"Love my little baby for me; and--tell _him_--I forgive him.\" The eyes\nclosed, this time for ever.\n\nMy poor mother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II: BEAR LAWN\n\n\nMy first memory in this life is of a moving. I am sitting in a\nhigh chair, kept in by a stick placed through a hole in each arm.\nI am surrounded by the utmost disarray. In front of me is an old\nsponge-bath, crammed full of knick-knacks and drawing-room ornaments.\nI stretch out my hands yearningly, acquisitively, and make signs of\nwrenching from its offensive gaolerlike position the stick which bars\nmy way. My Grandmother coaxes me to keep it in, and uses the words she\nis to use so often later on--words which will punctuate my daily life\nin days to come:\n\n\"Don't 'ee do it, my dear. Sit 'ee still and give no trouble. Ye'll\ntumble and hurt yourself, so leave the stick alone. Don't 'ee do it.\"\n\n\"If she don't, I'll take it out myself and lay it about her,\" comes\nanother voice, which is to punctuate as regularly and much more\nraucously my early doings. And Aunt Jael shakes her fist, and lowers at\nme.\n\nPerhaps I don't really remember the trifling incident. Most likely I\nonly remember that I remember. It is a photograph of a photograph,\nsmudged by the fingers of Time. Yet I see as clearly as ever the\ndark room in disarray, my Grandmother kind and coaxing, Aunt Jael\nthreatening and harsh. The memory is clearer because Time has not\nblurred but rather sharpened it. I grew up the gauge of an unequal\nbattle between Grandmother and Great-Aunt. Moving-day is merely the\nmoment in which my infant intelligence first caught news of the\nstruggle.\n\nAt this time I must have been about three years old, for it was some\nthree years after my mother's death that we moved from the High Street,\nat the time when--I think it was in 1852--the old North Gate was\nremoved, and our house pulled down. Our new house was Number Eight,\nBear Lawn. The Lawn was a biggish patch of grass with houses on both\nsides. At the far end from the road it merged into a steep grassy bank,\ncrowned with poplars, which allowed no egress. At the near end a big\niron gate barred us off from the plebeian houses of Bear Street, to\nwhich the Lawn mansions felt themselves notably superior.\n\nThe Lawn lay to the right of the street some little way out of the\ntown. In reality it was an old barrack-square, \"converted.\" The houses\non each side of it were barracks put up during the French Revolutionary\nWars. When Boney was beaten and the soldiers sent away, an enterprising\nbuilder turned the barracks into two terraces of houses, and sowed\nthe barrack-square with grass seed. Bear Lawn became one of the most\nelegant quarters of Tawborough, a quiet preserve of genteel habitation;\nthough the houses never quite lost their barrack quality. They were too\nsquare and bare and big to be truly genteel. And too roomy.\n\nNumber Eight was one of the squarest and barest.\n\nIt was gloomy. How far the aspect it will always bear in my mind may be\na reflection of the dark and unhappy days I spent there, and how far\nit was real, I cannot ever say. It was a house of big empty corridors,\ndark bare spaces, and an incommunicable dreariness that somehow stilled\nyou as you crossed the doorstep. There was none of the cosy warmth that\nmakes so many dark old houses a homely joy to the senses and a warm\nfragrance for the memory. It had the silence in it that only large\nempty spaces can create, did not seem inhabited, and smelt of coffins,\nI used to think. Even in summer there was a suggestion of damp and cold\nand bleakness, and always there was the silence which made me wait--and\nlisten.\n\nDownstairs there were three big rooms: Aunt Jael's, the dining-room\nand the kitchen. Aunt Jael's was the front one. The door was always\nunlocked, yet the key was left on the outside of the door, and I\nwas forbidden to enter. Like Mrs. Bluebeard (of whom I had never\nheard) or our first mother Eve (in the knowledge of whom I grew to\nunderstanding), I felt that prohibition made perfect; and the forbidden\nroom attracted me beyond all others. I visited it usually in the\nafternoon, when the thunder and trumpets of Aunt Jael's after-dinner\ndoze in the dining-room announced that the road was clear. The\nblinds were always drawn, winter and summer alike; and the windows\nclosed. The room seemed filled with a dull yellowish kind of mist,\nthe ochre-coloured blind toning the darkness, and just permitting\nyou to see a yellowish carpet and dull yellowish furniture. A row\nof dismal plants, standing in saucers on the floor, filled the bay\nwindow. There was a great oak sideboard, stuffed with Aunt Jael's\npreserves and pickles; though it was long before I had the courage\nand the opportunity to ransack it thoroughly. The walls were covered\nwith spears and daggers, trophies of the Gospel in distant lands. In\na corner reposed the supreme trophy, a huge wooden god, sitting with\narms akimbo. His votaries (until salvation, in the person of Brother\nImmanuel Greeber, had turned them from their ways) dwelt, I believe, in\nthe Society Islands; though he looked for all the world like a Buddha,\nwith his painless impenetrable eyes and his smile of changeless calm.\nIn his dark unwholesome corner he dominated the room. The yellow mist\nwas incense in his nostrils.\n\nThe middle room we called the dining-room, though Aunt Jael favoured\n\"back parlour.\" Here we lived and prayed and ate, and here a large part\nof this story took place. The window overlooked our small backyard,\nwhich being flanked by out-houses gave little light; so this room too\nwas dark, though not as dark as Aunt Jael's, since the blinds were\nnot usually drawn. It was more barely furnished. There was the table,\na chiffonier, a side-board, a bookcase, and two principal chairs: a\n\"gentleman's\" armchair to the left of the fireplace, with two big\narms; and a \"lady's,\" armless, to the right. One was comfortable, the\nother was not. One was Aunt Jael's, the other was my Grandmother's.\nThere were four bedrooms on the first floor, and I must note their\nstrategic positions. Aunt Jael's was the first on the right, my own\nthe second; we were over the dining-room and surveyed the backyard.\nMy Grandmother's chamber, the first on the left, and the spare-room\nbeyond it overlooked the Lawn. At the half-landing above was Mrs.\nCheese's bedroom, while the top of the house consisted of an enormous\nwhitewashed attic, lighted by an unwashed skylight and suffused by a\ncold bluish gloom that contrasted queerly with the foggy yellow of the\nfront room downstairs yet excelled it in silent cheerlessness. Here I\nwould spend hours, or whole days, either of my own free will, that I\nmight moon and mope to my heart's content, and talk aloud to myself\nwithout fear of mocking audience; or perforce, banished by the frequent\njudgment of Aunt Jael.\n\nIt was our moving into this house that supplies my first earthly\nmemory. My first important--dramatic, historic--remembrance must date\nfrom several months later, when I was nearly four years old. The scene\nwas our evening reading of the Word. We were sitting in our usual\npositions round the dining-room fire after supper.\n\nTo the left of the chimney-piece, in the big black horsehair chair--the\ncomfortable one, the one with sides and arms--sat my Great-Aunt Jael.\nThis was her permanent post. From this coign of vantage she issued\nukases, thundered commands, hurled anathemas and brandished her\nsceptre--that thorned stick of whose grim and governmental qualities\nI have the fullest knowledge of any soul (or body) on earth. She was\na short, stout, stocky, strong-looking woman, yet bent; when walking,\nbent sometimes almost double. Leaning on her awful stick, she looked\nthe old witch she was. Peaky black cap surmounting beetling black brows\nand bright black eyes, wrinkled swarthy skin, beaky nose, a hard mouth\nwhiskered like a man's, and a harder chin: feature for feature, she\nwas the witch of the picture-books. All her dresses, silk, serge or\nbombazine, were black. On the night I speak of, an ordinary week-night,\nshe was dressed in her oldest serge. The great Holy Bible on her knees\nmight have been some unholy wizard's tome.\n\nTo the right of the chimney-piece sat my Grandmother. She resembled her\nsister in feature; the character of the face was as different as is\nheaven from hell. This indeed was the very quality of the difference,\nand I had a fancy that they were the _same_ face, one given to God,\nthe other sold to Satan. My Grandmother had the same beaky nose and\nnut-cracker face. Her mouth and chin were firm, but kind instead of\ncruel. Her skin was milk-white instead of swarthy, her caps were of\nwhite lace. Her eyes were as bright as my Great-Aunt's, but bright\nwith kindliness instead of menace. Her whole face spoke of goodwill to\nothers and perfect peace. It was a sweet old face. I love it still.\n\nIn the middle, facing the fire, sat Mrs. Cheese. She was a farmer's\ndaughter and widow from near South Molton; and looked it. She was\nshort, fat and ruddy; a few years younger than her mistresses, perhaps\nat this time a woman of sixty.\n\nI myself crouched on a little stool between Mrs. Cheese and Aunt Jael;\nbut nearer the latter, that I might be watched, and cuffed, with ease.\nOn this particular evening, my heart was hot with rage against Aunt\nJael, who had flogged me and locked me in the attic: I don't remember\nwhat for. She ordered me more sternly than usual not to dare to move\nmy eyes from her face as she read the nightly portion from the Word\nof God. To-night it was from her favourite Proverbs, the thirtieth\nchapter: the words of Agur the son of Jakeh, _even_ the prophecy; the\nwords the man spake unto Ithiel, even unto Ithiel and Ucal.\n\nAunt Jael read, or rather declaimed the Word, in a harsh staccato\nway; not without a certain power, especially in the dourer passages\nof Proverbs or the dismaller in Job or Lamentations. In one of her\nfavourite Psalms, the eighteenth or the sixty-eighth, reeking with\nbattle and revenge, and bespattered with the blood of the enemies of\nJehovah, her voice would rise to a dark triumphal shout, terrible as\nan army with banners. This evening I looked sullenly at the floor as\nshe boomed forth the words of Agur, determined _not_ to fix my eyes\non her face at any rate until Stick coaxed me. Suddenly my eyes were\ntransfixed to the floor. A gigantic cockroach was crawling about near\nmy feet. I wanted to cry out but managed to contain myself until,\nbehold, the creature crawled away from my left foot towards the leg\nof Aunt Jael's chair, reached the chair leg, began to climb it with\nresolution. I watched, half in fascination, half in fear. It reached\nthe level of the horsehair upholstery. Aunt Jael had reached verse\nthirteen.\n\n\"Their eyelids are lifted up.\" She looked meaningly at me.\n\nFortunately my eyelids were by this time well lifted up, as the beetle\nwas now half way up the chair, approaching the awful place where Aunt\nJael's shoulder touched the upholstery. No--yes: it crawled on to the\narm, and mounted her sleeve right up to the shoulder. Righteous revenge\nfor her cruelty and harshness counselled silence. \"Let her suffer,\" I\nsaid to myself, \"let the cockroach do his worst.\" Fear of interrupting\ngave like counsel. On the other side spoke the prickings of conscience\nand pity, and above all a wild desire to scream.\n\nAunt Jael read on, innocent of the unbidden guest upon her shoulder.\n\"The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the\nway of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a\nmaid--\"\n\n\"Ay, and the way of a beetle with a Great-Aunt,\" I could have shouted.\nThe beast, after a moment's hesitation and survey, had now turned along\nthe shoulder to the neck. The warm hairy flesh of Aunt Jael's neck was\nbut six inches away.\n\n\"The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the\nsummer; The conies are but a feeble folk, yet they make their houses in\nthe rocks; The locusts have no King, yet go they forth all of them by\nbands; The spider taketh hold with her hands--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I shrieked--in a moment shot through with terror, joy, relief;\nsuffused by a new beatific sense of speaking historic words--\"and\nthe beetle taketh hold with his claws!\" As I uttered the words the\ninsect crawled from her collar on to the very flesh of her neck. She\nunderstood, with Spartan calm took hold of him, squashed him carefully\nbetween her thumb and forefinger and threw him on the fire, where he\nsizzled sickeningly.\n\n\"Surely the churning of milk bringeth forth butter, and the wringing of\nthe nose bringeth forth blood: so the forcing of wrath bringeth forth\nstrife.\"\n\nThere the chapter ended. She slammed the book and turned on me.\n\n\"You have forced wrath, Child. I shall bring forth strife.\"\n\nAnd despite my Grandmother's entreaties, she led me from the room by\nthe nose, which she pulled unmercifully: though no blood was brought\nforth. Out in the passage she gave me a cruel beating with the thorned\nstick, till I screamed for mercy, and my Grandmother intervened.\n\n\"'Tis cruel, Jael. The child cried out about the beetle for _your_\nsake.\"\n\n\"Sake or no sake, she cried out unseemly and irreverent. That's all I\nlook at.\"\n\nI was sore in body and sorer in heart. I had screamed out to warn Aunt\nJael of the insect's approach, and now I was flogged for my pains. I\nknew in my own heart that what Grandmother had pleaded was not in point\nof fact quite true, I knew I had been secretly glad to see the creature\nmaking for Aunt Jael's skin, and for this reason had kept silence for\nso long. The physical instinct to scream had merely been stronger in\nthe end than my resolution to say nothing. In a dim sort of way I\nrealized this, and saw that my Grandmother's plea was unwarranted. But\nI saw more clearly that the common-sense of the position was that I had\ndone Aunt Jael a good turn, and that the flogging was--in the light of\nthe facts as she (not the Lord or I) knew them--mean and undeserved.\nI brooded revenge, as always. Aunt Jael's beatings were always more\nor less cruel, always more or less unjust; this I knew with a child's\ninstinct, distorted and exaggerated no doubt by wretchedness and pride.\nSo always I planned revenge, which sooner or later brought on the next\nflogging.\n\nThis time, however, my revenge was undetected. Next morning I came\ndownstairs just as Mrs. Cheese was beginning to lay the table for\nbreakfast. There were two separate sets of everything--breakfast-ware,\ndinner-services, tea-things, plate, knives and forks, even\ncruets--Grandmother's and Aunt Jael's, which the latter insisted on\nkeeping rigorously separate. So, every day for breakfast or tea there\nwould be two cups and saucers and plates with the gold pattern for\nmy Grandmother and me, and one solitary cup and saucer and plate of\nWillow-pattern for my Great-Aunt. She had her own tea-pot too, a great\nfluted thing in old silver-plate, which could have held tea for a\ndozen; but never a taste of tea was poured forth from it for any one\nelse, save on occasions so rare that I can number them on the fingers\nof my hand. So there was no mistaking the utensil with which, in which,\nfrom which, or out of which Aunt Jael would partake of nourishment. I\nwas wandering round the table when I noticed, at first with fright,\nthen, when I ascertained that it was dead, with interest and purpose,\na large beetle much the same as its fumigated brother of the night\nbefore, lying on its back, claws heavenward. A divine idea possessed\nme. I picked it up, squashed it between my thumb and forefinger in\nthe true Aunt Jaelian manner, and smeared the loathsome substance all\nover my Great-Aunt's teaspoon and the inside of her cup. It was an\nact of genius, that rare thing: the Revenge Perfect. \"With the beetle\nhast thou slain,\" I said solemnly out loud, \"by the beetle shalt thou\nperish.\"\n\n\"Perish\" was a poetic flight, as Aunt Jael entirely failed to notice\nthe mess in her cup, which she filled with tea from her exclusive\npot, or the mess on her spoon, with which she stirred lustily. She\ndrank three cupfuls, and belched as blandly as usual. Now I saw the\nimperfection of my revenge perfect. In idea and execution it had been\nsuperb, and to see her guzzling down the embeetled tea was very sweet.\nBut she did not _know_ she was drinking it--this was the eternal thorn\nthat mars the everlasting rose. I had, however, the compensation of\nsafety. All through breakfast, I looked meek and forgiving. Aunt Jael\nrelented.\n\n\"Here, child, have a drink of tea out of my cup; 'twill do 'ee more\ngood than the milk-and-water stuff your Grandma always gives 'ee.\"\n\n\"No, thank you, Aunt,\" I replied. And I triumphed in my heart.\n\nFate was about to triumph over me. Beetle had led to beating, and I\nhad used beetle (with tea-cup) for revenge. Now Fate used tea-cup for\ntriumph. It befell at tea-time, I think the same day. My arm was on the\ntable-cloth, and, before I knew what I was doing, it (and Fate) had\nswept Aunt Jael's own old blue exclusive willow-pattern cup on to the\nfloor, where it lay in a thousand avenging fragments. A brutal cuff\nfull in the face changed fear and remorse into rage.\n\n\"Careless little slut!\" she shouted. \"What are 'ee biding there for\nstaring like a half-daft sheep?--Say you're sorry, say you're sorry.\"\n\n\"I was sorry,\" I faltered, \"but I'm not now.\"\n\nThis was the first brave thing I ever did, so brave that I hold my\nbreath now to think of it. I shrank from some monstrous blow.\n\nNo blow came; partly because my Grandmother looked warningly ready\nto interfere, partly because my Great-Aunt had decided on another\npunishment, the only one I feared worse than blows.\n\n\"Oh, not sorry, eh, careless little slut?--\"\n\n\"Stop it, Jael, I tell 'ee,\" broke in my Grandmother. \"The child must\ntry to be more careful and handy, and she's to say she's sorry, but--\"\n\n\"Say she's sorry?\" echoed Aunt Jael. \"But she's just said she's not.\n'I'm not sorry _now_' quoth she! Not sorry, not sorry, young huzzy,\ndo 'ee know where Not-sorry goes? Do 'ee? I'll tell 'ee: straight to\nHell. Obstinacy in sin is the worst sin, and its reward is Hell. Hell,\nchild, where your body will be scorched with flames and racked with\nawful torments. Devils will twist and twease your flesh, and 'twill be\nfor ever too. You've done a wrong thing, and your nasty proud soul is\ntoo wicked to say you're sorry. You spurn the chance of repentance,\nthe free offer of God A'mighty, made through me His servant. You shall\nsuffer eternal punishment.\"\n\nI quailed. At four the fear of that word had fallen on my soul. She\nknew it: the beady eyes gleamed.\n\n\"No hope, no escape. Flames, pains, coals of fire, coals of fire!\nHa, ha, ha!\" (Here she cackled.) \"Not sorry, eh? Very like you'll be\nsorry then, when you look across the gulf and see all your dear ones\nin Abraham's bosom. No hope of ever joining them. Torture for all\neternity. Have you thought what the word Eternity means, child? You're\nyoung in your sins as yet, but you know that well enough, ha, ha, ha!\"\n(She chuckled again, three hard little cackling noises they always\nwere, cruel enough.) \"It means that you will suffer the torments of the\nlake of fire that is burning with brimstone, not for a mere thousand\nthousand years, but for ever and ever and ever--\"\n\nI was less than four years old, and I could bear it no longer. I flew\nto my Grandmother's arm for safety, sobbing brokenly, half-wild for\nfear.\n\nAunt Jael leaned back, content, pleased with the success of her\npunishment, and sure of heaven. Though if there be the Hell she raved\nof, it is for such as her.\n\nMy Grandmother comforted me. She was torn, I suppose, between two\nfeelings. Her faith told her that what her sister said was true, her\nheart that it was cruel. I felt somehow even then that this was the\nnature of my Grandmother's struggle. The good heart turns away from\ncruelty, even when it speaks with all the authority of true religion,\nand so my Grandmother always turned away. She compromised: said\nnothing to Aunt Jael, while she comforted me; while soothing the\nvictim, did not scold the scolder.\n\n\"Don't cry my dearie, and don't 'ee be frightened. Nought can harm 'ee.\nYour good aunt is right. 'Tis true that Hell is terrible, 'tis true\nthat you're a sinful child, and 'tis true that you'll be going to the\ncruel place, if you have no sorrow and repentance in your heart. You\nbroke your Aunt's fine cup; run to her now, tell her you're sorry. Only\nthen can you be saved from the wrath of Jehovah, freed by repentance,\ncleansed by love of Christ. And even as Hell is awful, so is Heaven\ngood. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the things which God hath\nprepared for them that love Him. Run to your Aunt. Say: 'I'm sorry,\nAunt.'\"\n\nI hesitated. Like my Grandmother's, my four-year-old heart found it had\nto decide between two calls. The call of fear was, \"Say you're sorry,\nand escape surely from Hell.\" The call of hate was \"Why? She is a bad\ncruel woman; and you're not sorry at all, you're glad you've smashed\nher evil cup.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" added the Tempter, \"as you're not sorry, it would be lying\nto say you are.\"\n\nI hung doubtfully. At length I pouted, \"I don't want to.\"\n\n\"But true repentance,\" said my Grandmother, \"means doing things you\ndon't want to.\"\n\nI said nothing.\n\n\"Mary, child--\" my Grandmother paused a moment, \"there is a bright\nangel in heaven who wants you to give way--your dear mother. I seem to\nhear her speaking to me now, and telling me so.\"\n\nIt is hard for me to explain the power that word had over me from my\nearliest days. I had a dear angelic vision of kind eyes and two white\nshining wings. I would shut my eyes in bed at night and see her.\nSometimes she seemed to come very near, sometimes she would seem to\nbend over me and kiss me. Now, as my Grandmother finished speaking, I\nseemed to see her near. I ran across the room to the old arm-chair.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Great-Aunt,\" I said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III: CHILD OF PRIVILEGE\n\n\nSuch a life and such a household encouraged unchildlike emotions. I\nwas puzzled far too soon in life by the puzzle of all life. I could\nnot reconcile the wrath of Jehovah with the love of Christ, or the\nharshness of my Great-Aunt with the kindness of my Grandmother, which\nwas the near and earthly form of that discrepancy. The world was a\nmysterious battlefield between Wrath and Love, as No. 8 Bear Lawn\nwas a nearer and more familiar battle-place between Aunt Jael and\nGrandmother. Hell versus Heaven was another aspect of the battle. These\ntwo words were part of our daily life. They helped to make the two\nbattles seem but one; for all the innumerable struggles between Aunt\nJael and my Grandmother were conducted in the words and in the ways of\nour religion.\n\nOur whole life was indeed our religion, or rather our religion was our\nlife. From morn till night our daily life at Bear Lawn was an incessant\npreparation for our eternal life above. First we said our own private\nbedside prayers and read our \"bedroom portions\" of the Word. Then down\nin the dining-room after breakfast, Aunt Jael read the Word and prayed\naloud for half-an-hour or more; the same after supper in the evening.\nThen, last thing at night, my Grandmother came to my room and prayed\nwith me by my bedside. We lived in the world of our faith in a complete\nand intense way almost beyond the understanding of a modern household,\nhowever God-fearing. The promises of the faith, the unsearchable riches\nof Christ, the hope of God, the fear of Hell were our mealtime topics.\nSin, as personified by me, was a fruitful subject. Both my Grandmother\nand Aunt Jael returned to it unwearied, the former mournfully because\nshe loved me, the latter with a rough relish because she loved me not.\n\nThe main principles of our faith may be summed up in a few\ncapital-letter words. First, there was THE LORD: the God whom all\nmen worship: Who is One. My child's difficulty was that He seemed\nto be Two. There was Aunt Jael's God, a Prince of battles, revenge\nand judgment, dipping His foot in the blood of enemies and the\ntongue of His dogs in the same; a King terrible in anger, dark as a\nthundercloud; Jehovah, the great I AM. There was my Grandmother's\nGod, a loving Heavenly Father, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy,\npitying His children like a Father, Whose mercy was from everlasting to\neverlasting, Whose loving kindness was for ever.\n\n\"I will avenge,\" thundered Aunt Jael from her horsehair throne.\n\n\"God is Love,\" replied my Grandmother.\n\nThere was the WORLD, a comprehensive word which covered all concerts,\nentertainments, parties--whatever they might be, for I cannot say I\nknew--all merrymakings, junketings, outings, pleasures, joys; all books\nsave _the_ Book; all affection save for things above; all finery,\nfurbelows, feathers, frills; smart clothes, love of money, lollipops,\nlight conversation and unheavenly thoughts. Everything was of this\nworld worldly which did not savour strongly of the next. There was\nthe FLESH or the World made manifest in our bodies. It existed to be\n\"mortified,\" chiefly by dancing attendance on Aunt Jael. Not to be up\nand about, getting Aunt Jael's morning cup-of-tea was fleshly, though\nit does not seem to have been fleshly to drink the same. Then there was\nthe DEVIL, styled Personal, whom Mrs. Cheese in a fit of regrettable\nblasphemy once identified with Some One Else, and though the blasphemy\nshocked, I cannot truly say it pained me.\n\n\"She'm the very Dow'l hissel, th' ole biddy,\" said our bonds-woman one\nday after an encounter in the kitchen in which \"th' ole biddy\" had\nbrandished big words, and had ended by brandishing the frying-pan also\nbefore leaving the beaten Mrs. Cheese to blaspheme, and later to be\nsoothed by th' ole biddy's sister.\n\nThen there was the BEAST, the _so-called_ Pope of Rome: and his\nMistress, that great WHORE that sitteth upon many waters, that Woman\nsitting upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy,\nhaving seven heads and ten horns, that Strumpet arrayed in purple and\nscarlet, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a\ngolden cup in her hand full of abominations, upon whose forehead was\nher name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS\nAND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH--known also, in cravener circles, as the\nRoman Catholic Church. Beast and Whore were inextricably mixed up in my\nmind: an amorphous twin mass of scarlet and monstrous horror. I hated\nthem with the passionate hate of ignorance, religion and mystery.\n\nThere were the ELECT, the Saints, the Few, God's Chosen Ones. There\nwas the ROOM they worshipped in, the BLOOD which redeemed them, the\nGRACE which sustained them, and the eternal Rest or REWARD on High they\naspired to. There was the WAY they reached it, the PLAN of Salvation\nwhich shewed them the Way, and the BOOK in which the Plan was to be\nfound.\n\nThe Book! We read it aloud together twice a day, and privately many\ntimes. We delved into its pages early and late, in season and out of\nseason. They say that the old Cromwellians were men of one book; No.\n8 Bear Lawn was a house of one book with very vengeance, for Aunt\nJael would suffer no trumpery sugar-tales such as \"The Pilgrim's\nProgress\"--a book which many even of the staunchest Puritans stooped, I\nhave learnt later, to peruse. There were other books in the dining-room\nbookcase--works of devotion, exhortation and exposition that I shall\nspeak of later--but until I was ten years old, my Grandmother and Aunt\ndecided I should read no other word whatsoever save _The_ Book. Looking\nback, I do not regret their decision.\n\nDay and night we searched the Scriptures. Aunt Jael and Grandmother\ndiscussed them interminably, and sometimes I dared to join in. Our\npreferences varied, and were the best index of our characters. Aunt\nJael's favourite book was without doubt the Proverbs. Its salt old\nwisdom found echo in her mind. Its continual exhortations to chasten\nand to correct, nor ever to spare the rod, because of the crying of the\nchastened one, appealed to her nearly. They were quoted at me daily;\nusually, alas, as the prelude to offensive action with the thorned\nstick. Job was another favourite, and the din and bloodshed of the\nBooks of Kings. Jeremiah, prophesying vengeance and horror, was her\nbest-loved Prophet. Parts of Isaiah found favour too, most of all the\nthirty-fourth chapter where the prophet sings of the wild terrors that\nshall fill the day of the Lord's vengeance, when the screech-owl shall\nmake her resting place in Zion and the vultures be gathered together.\nOf the Psalms she read most the forty-sixth, \"God is our refuge and\nstrength!\" and the sixty-eighth, \"Let God arise, let His enemies be\nscattered.\" Ah, she was an Old Testament woman. \"Eye for eye, tooth\nfor tooth\" was a dispensation she could follow better than \"Love your\nenemies.\" The law of Moses was more acceptable in her sight than the\nLaw of Christ, Jehovah's word from the mountain than the Sermon on the\nMount. The Epistle to the Romans, where Saint Paul scolds and scourges\nthe saints of the Imperial City, was her favourite New Testament book.\nShe loved the whole Bible, however, and knew it better than any one I\nhave ever met except my Grandmother. She kept all the commandments,\nexcept perhaps the tenth. For she coveted Miss Salvation Clinker's fine\nwhite teeth. Her own were few--and black.\n\nMy Grandmother was a New Testament woman. She loved the Gospels best:\nthe story of Jesus. She knew--and lived--better than any one the Sermon\non the Mount, but came most often to St. John: the third chapter,\n\"God so loved the world\"; the tenth, \"I am the Good Shepherd\"; and\nthe fifteenth, \"I am the True Vine.\" She read through the Epistles\nevery week, quoting most often from I Corinthians XIII--the Charity\nchapter--and the Epistles of John. In the Old Testament, she loved\nbest the Psalms. She knew them of course by heart, as did I. The\ntwenty-third and the hundred-and-third meant most to her. Aunt Jael's\nfavourite, the savage sixty-eighth, was alien to her whole faith. She\nwould not say she disliked it--to dislike a word or a letter of God's\nWord would have been sin. She obeyed the ten commandments that God gave\nto Moses and the two greater ones that Christ gave to the questioning\nscribe. She loved the Lord, and she loved her neighbours as herself.\nShe was the only Christian I have ever met.\n\nMy own early loves in the Book I can record faithfully. From the age of\nfour to the age of twelve, I always used the same copy; a large musty\nold Bible that had belonged to my Mother, though not too large to hold\ncomfortably in both hands. It was heavily marked.\n\nThere were three different kinds of mark: in ordinary black lead\npencil, to show chapters I was studying with Grandmother and Aunt\nJael, or portions I had to learn by heart; in blue crayon to indicate\nwell-liked places; in red crayon to mark the passages I loved best of\nall. That old Bible is open before me now as I write: the red marks\nare faded a little, but they still tell me what I liked best in those\nfar-off days, and (nearly always) like best still.\n\nMy preferences fell under three main heads. First, the bright-coloured\nstories of the beginning of the Bible, the wondrous lives of the men\nwho began the world: Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac,\nJacob and Esau, Joseph and Benjamin; with Princes such as Chedorlaomer\nthe King of Elam, Tidal King of nations, and Pharaoh, full of dreams.\nThere were revengeful women and some who suffered revenge: Hagar turned\nforth by Sarah into the wilderness of Beersheba; Lot's wife on whom\nGod took vengeance and turned into a pillar of salt, and Potiphar's,\nwho took vengeance on Joseph. There were mysterious places: Eden and\nEgypt, Ur of the Chaldees, the Wilderness and the Cities of the Plain,\nthe land of Canaan flowing with milk and honey, and the slime pits of\nSiddim into which the Kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fell. Wonders of\nearth and heaven: the Tower of Babel, the Serpent in the garden, the\nTree of Knowledge; the Creation, the Plagues and the Flood; the Ark of\nrefuge and the fugitive Dove.\n\nMy second bent was for the mournful places of the Word; a morbid taste,\nbut then so was I. The gloom of Job and the menace of Lamentations\nand the Woes of Matthew XXIV seemed to belong to our forbidding\nhouse. Up in the dim blueness of the attic I would declaim aloud the\ntwenty-fourth chapter, where Christ spoke of the signs of His coming:\nwars and rumours of wars, famine and pestilence and earthquakes:\n\n\"Wheresoever the carcase is, there the eagles will be gathered\ntogether.\"\n\nIn my weak childish treble it must have sounded comic, though nobody\never laughed except, maybe, the God above the attic skylight. More even\nthan gloom, I love pure sorrow: Ecclesiastes, where the Preacher talks\nof the sadness of all life, the eternal misery of Man; and the story of\nthe Passion, the Son of Man Who tasted human bitterness and death. The\nsubtlety of the Preacher may have been beyond me; it needs no wit but a\nchild's understanding of English words to feel his unplumbable woe in\nher heart. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities:\nall is vanity. While Gethsemane saw the whole world's sorrow in a\nnight-time.\n\nMy third, and chief, happiness was in the words. Passages there are\nof sounding wrath or matchless imagery. I did not understand them,\nfor they pass all understanding. But I loved them, plastered them\nmarginally with three thicknesses of red crayon, cried them aloud. I\nhave counted, and the books with most markings are these four: The\nPsalms, the Song of Solomon, Isaiah, and The Revelation. In the last I\nrevelled with a pure ecstasy of awe: in the sixth chapter, where the\nsun becomes black as sack-cloth of hair, and the moon as blood; in the\ntwenty-first, which tells of the City of Heaven, a city of pure gold,\nlike unto clear glass, the foundations of whose rocks are garnished\nwith jasper and sapphire and chalcedony and emerald and sardonyx and\nsardius and chrysolyte and beryl and topaz and chrysoprasus and jacinth\nand amethyst, whose light is the Lamb; most of all in the seventh\nchapter: \"What are these which are arrayed in white robes? And whence\ncame they? _These are they which came out of great tribulation_ and\nhave washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.\"\n\nMy Psalms, as I called them, as against Grandmother's or Aunt Jael's\nprot\u00e9g\u00e9s, were the hundred-and-thirty-seventh, _By the waters of\nBabylon_, and the twenty-fourth, _Who is the King of glory?_\n\nHowever much I might write about the Book, it would fail to fill the\nplace in this record that it filled in our lives, of which it moulded\nthe very moods. Aunt Jael as lover of the Mosaic law and student of the\nProverbs, was herself stern lawgiver and sayer of dark sayings. She\nruled. Ruled my Grandmother (nearly always and in nearly everything,\nthough there were exceptions); ruled me (except in one or two awful\noccasions I shall tell of); ruled Mrs. Cheese (until the latter's\nExodus); ruled the household, ruled the Meeting, and could have ruled\nthe whole world with a due sense of her fitness for the post. The old\narmchair was her throne, the thorned stick her sceptre. As a woman she\nhad, as I can see now, many high qualities. She did her duty as she saw\nit; was honourable and straightforward. She loved the truth, especially\nwhen it was unpalatable to other people. She had a deep fund of\ncommon-sense. She was a thrifty, hard-headed, sensible house-wife; and,\nas I said before, observed with zeal some nine of the Commandments.\nBut of kinder or more endearing qualities I remember none. No doubt\nsome of the child's bitterness and the child's bias remain with me\nstill--perhaps it is merely vain to imagine that I hold the scales\nevenly and do not let prejudice weight memory--but I look across many\nyears and see, as I believe the world saw, a hard bad old woman.\nHeaven, they say, forgives those who love much; maybe it forgives also\nthose who are little loved, for they need forgiveness most. Aunt Jael\nstarted life hard, but I feel certain that the hardness was made a\nhundredfold harder because no love--no lover--had ever come her way.\nBitter because she had no family of her own, she strove to embitter her\nsister's. Cheated of the two things we women need most--lordship and\nlove--in revenge she lorded it over everybody, and loved not a soul\nin the world. Not but what she could have wedded many a time if she'd\nfelt so inclined, including some as \"others\" didn't mind stooping to\ntake though they were her leavings; not but what--in short, to all the\ntragical-comical backward boastings of the unchosen woman she would\ntreat us at times. It was one of her few weaknesses, and I have since\nwondered if, failing to deceive six-year-old me, she succeeded in\ndeceiving herself. During a tirade of this kind, I always fell a-musing\nwhat \"Uncle Jael\" would have been like. I decided he would wear smoked\nblack glasses, like the man who came to tune our old piano; because\nI once fancied that Aunt Jael's eyes had rested upon the latter with\na suspicion of unwonted coyness. This must have been a freak of my\nimagination, if not of Aunt Jael's after-dinner brandy. \"For two good\nqualities,\" she used to say, \"I thank and praise the Lord. That he has\npreserved me all my life from all wanton sentiment; and that it has\npleased Him to make me the most fearless and outspoken woman in this\ntown.\"\n\nWhat I have said about my Grandmother's pastures in the Bible shows\nwhat manner of woman she was. Yet not quite completely. She was gentle\nand forgiving, and the most unselfish human being I have ever met, or\never shall; but this and more. She was as shrewd a housewife as her\nsister; a woman of common-sense and plain seeing. Nor was she weak\nor meek. She gave in to Aunt Jael, certainly; but on principle, that\nis through strength rather than weakness. And whenever she chose to\nfight ungloved, she would usually beat her sister. I was the chief\nbattle-ground. When Aunt Jael's abuse or ill-treatment of me became too\noutrageous, Grandmother would show fight, and on her day could leave\nAunt Jael drubbed and apologetic upon the stricken field. But if my\nGrandmother thus defended me to Aunt Jael, she never had a good word\nto say of me to myself, or to the Lord. Every night at my bedside she\npoured out my wickedness before my Maker; and in all her life she only\npraised me once. With rare instinct she refused to water the plant\nof self-righteousness which she saw ready to flourish in me like the\nbay-tree. In her mild way she could be as outspoken as her sister;\nindeed what with the two of them and Mrs. Cheese, who \"called a spade\na spade, and a pasnip a pasnip,\" ours was a stark outspoken house, a\ndark palace of Plain Speaking. Despite all my Grandmother's loveliness\nof character, she lacked one thing. Demonstrative affection, warm\nclinging love, the encircling arm, the kiss, the gentle madness, the\ndear embrace,--things I did not know the existence of till a later\nunforgettable moment, though they were the mystery, the hunger, never\nperfectly visualized, never in the heart understood, that till that\nmoment I was seeking always to solve, to satisfy; the thing I cried for\npassionately without knowing what thing it was--these had no meaning\nfor her, no place ever in her life. The nearest she had known was in\nher love for my mother. Did they kiss? I wonder. In all the years of\nher love and goodness to me, she never once kissed me upon the mouth,\nnor hugged me, nor let me hug her; nor said the word for which my\nlittle wild heart was waiting. For so good and affectionate a woman\nshe was strangely phlegmatic. As she did not embrace in love, nor did\nshe weep in sorrow. Even when my mother died, her eyes, she told me,\nwere dimmed for a moment only. It was the Lord's will: wherefore weep?\nYet I have seen her shedding tears of joy over a missionary chronicle\nwhich told of the conversion of some African negro. She had tears, that\nis, for the Lord; as her strongest love was for Him. Humans mattered\nmuch; but less. Thus I was lonely.\n\nTo give a picture of myself in those early days I find harder, though\nonce again the Bible helps. I liked the imaginative old stories of\nGenesis, I liked the sad and gloomy books, I liked mysterious words;\nthat is, I was imaginative, morbid, and fond of the unknown and\nthe beautiful: much what any other child brought up under the same\ncircumstances would have been. If not a remarkable, and certainly not\na clever child, I was no less certainly out-of-the-ordinary. With\nmy morbid environment it was inevitable. I was serious, solemn and\nsensitive beyond what any child should be. In fact my oddness really\namounted to this, that I was unchildlike--chiefly because I was\nunhappy. If ever there were a moping miserable little guy, it was I. I\nhad no companions of my own age whatever, nor up till just before the\ntime I left Tawborough for Torribridge had I ever been alone with any\nother child for half an hour in my life. Aunt Jael forbade intercourse\nwith worldly children, and my Grandmother agreed. They were an unknown\nrace. All my companions were old women; the youngest, Mrs. Cheese, was\nsixty. I was never allowed to play with the Lawn children, indeed never\nallowed to play with anybody or \"at\" anything. I was kept indoors all\nday long to mope about in the gloomy house.\n\nThe distractions allowed were two: searching the Scriptures, and plain\nsewing. At six in the morning I got up, and, from the age of five or\nsix onwards, made my own bed and dusted my bedroom. Then I went into\nAunt Jael's room, and helped her to dress. Aunt Jael was usually in\nan evil temper first thing, and the only coin in which she repaid my\nservices was hard words and harder bangs. It was a painful half-hour\npassed in an atmosphere of laces and buttons, hooks and eyes, blows\nand maledictions. Sometimes if I failed to do her boots up quickly\nenough, she would kick me. The next duty was helping Mrs. Cheese and\nGrandmother with the breakfast, which was eaten at half past seven\npunctually. After breakfast, prayers; then I dusted the dining-room;\nthen from nine to eleven, two wretched hours with Aunt Jael styled\nLessons, a hotchpotch of Proverbs, pothooks and multiplication-tables,\nserved up with the usual seasoning of cuffs and imprecations. Every day\nI cried wretchedly, though tears brought nothing but the stick--and\ntears again. From eleven to twelve I sewed with my Grandmother; at noon\nwe had dinner. After dinner Grandmother usually studied the Word in\nher bedroom, while Aunt Jael snored in her chair: I was left to moon\nabout the house alone, with no plaything, no books, no companions; no\nresources whatever but my own imagination. I would sit for hours in\nthe great blue attic, talking to myself, inventing imaginary scenes in\nwhich I triumphed over Aunt Jael and humbled her before the world, or\nreciting from the Word, or often merely weeping. After supper, came\nprayers and reading the Word; then bedside prayers with my Grandmother;\nthen bed, which was not a much happier place, as I dreamt often,\nusually nightmares of hell and eternity, Satan and Aunt Jael.\n\nIt was a dreary life. I was a dreary little girl, and I must have\nlooked it. No photograph was ever taken to perpetuate the prim, sulky,\npale Quakerish little object I am told I was. My odd appearance was not\nhelped by decent clothes. There was to be no indulgence of the Flesh,\nand I was dressed with due unbecomingness, always in the same way. I\nwore a dark green corduroy blouse and skirt, and a little corduroy\nbonnet to match, bedecked with a gaunt duck's feather. For winter I had\nan ugly black overcoat with a cape. I had black woollen mittens and\nsquare hobnailed boots.\n\nI had no martyr's idea of myself, however, no exquisite self-pity,\nand any trace of such that may appear here is to be laid at the\ndoor of the authoress aged fifty, not of her chrysalis aged five.\nAll I knew was that I was miserable. I had a child's sure instinct\nfor injustice. I knew it was unjust that Aunt Jael should beat and\nabuse me all day long. I hated her bitterly, and hate makes no one\nhappier. Lovelessness is even worse than hate, and the two beset me. My\nGrandmother loved me tenderly no doubt, but her ways were not my ways.\nShe had no understanding of what I longed for. I wanted somebody--I\nonly half guessed this, not daring to believe the visualization when\nit suggested itself--in whose bosom I could bury my face and cry for\npure happiness. I would whimper myself to sleep thinking of my mother.\nSometimes I seemed to see her as an angel. She looked kind and radiant,\nand comforted me. When my Grandmother caught me crying for my mother, I\nwould say it was because of Aunt Jael's latest flogging.\n\nFear ruled me. The Devil and Hell frightened me terribly, and Eternity\nmore. The thought of living for ever and ever and ever, the attempt\nof my child's mind to picture everlastingness, to visualize my own\nsoul living through the pathless spaces of a billion years, and to be\nstill no nearer the end than at the beginning,--this morbid unceasing\ntrick of my imagination filled me with an ecstasy of fear, that froze\nand numbed my brain. I would sit up in bed too terrified to scream,\nvoiceless with fear. My heart beat wildly. The realization that there\nwas no hope, no way out--oh, heart, none ever--that because I was once\nborn I must live for all eternity, seized my body and brain alike. I\nwould jump out of bed, cry brokenly \"God, God\" in wild agony of soul,\nuntil, at last, the terror passed. Then, in a strange way, the blood\nrushed warmly back into my brain, and a languorous feeling of ease\nsucceeded the terror of a moment before. Sometimes I was wicked and\nfoolish enough to suffer the horror of thus \"thinking Eternity out\"\nfor the sake of the luxurious backwash of comfort and physical peace\nwhich followed. But most often the terror came imperiously, and I\ncould not escape it. I would be looking at the stars, I would think of\ntheir ineffable distances, then from eternity in space my mind would\nbe dragged as by some devil to eternity in time, and I would have to\nlive through the terror of the attempt--against my own will as it\nwere--to think out, to live out, the meaning of living for ever. It is\nthe worst agony the poor human soul can know; for a child, unnameable.\nThere is no escape. The soul must go through the agony of the whole\nvisualization--it may only be seconds, though it seems (perhaps is)\nEternity Itself--right to the moment when the brain and body can abide\nthe horror no longer, and from the very depths the soul cries out to\n\"God.\"\n\nA happy healthy child would know nothing of such bogeys; but I was\nneither. I was puny and ailing; I rarely went out of doors. Market on\na Friday morning, Meeting on Sundays, and an afternoon walk once in a\nlong while constituted my record of outings. The only real advantage\nI gained from this unhappy and unhealthy life was the development of\na quite unusual power of instinct and intuition. Shut up all day long\nwith no companions but the same three faces, I could read every mood\nand movement of them with unerring skill. Like the savage, or any one\nelse who lives in an abnormally narrow world, I felt things rather than\nknew them. And the thing I felt and knew most sorely was that I was\nwretched. And when Aunt Jael moralized and said, \"You are a privileged\nchild indeed,\" I felt and knew that she was lying.\n\n\"Your holy kinsfolk, your saintly mother, your godly surroundings, your\nexceptional chances of grace, all show you to be a Child of Privilege.\"\n\nAll this, from the earliest days that I could understand, was usual\nenough. One day, however, when I was about five, she paused here with\nan air of special importance that I scented at once, then proceeded,\n\"Your Grandmother and I have come to a decision, Child. Everything\npoints out that the Lord has chosen you for special privileges, and\nspecial works for Him. If you were a boy, Child, the way would be\nclear. We should train you for the Ministry of His Word. Yet the way\nhas been made plain. Your Grandmother and I have decided, after much\nseeking of the Lord in prayer, that your lot is to be cast--(she\nlooked towards my Grandmother for confirmation, and concluded\nmajestically)--_in the field of foreign labour_. You will bear witness\nto the Lord among the heathen. 'Go ye into all the world and preach the\nGospel, for lo! I am with you alway'!\"\n\nI looked appealingly towards my Grandmother. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I think\nit is the Lord's will.\"\n\nSo that was my life work. I was to spend Eternity as a missionary.\n\n\"You are indeed a Child of Privilege,\" Aunt Jael was booming.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV: I GO TO MEETING\n\n\nOn Lord's Day, March the Sixth 1853, being the first Sabbath after my\nfifth birthday, I was taken to Meeting.\n\nMeeting!--one social sphere my Grandmother and Great-Aunt knew; their\none earthly club, set, milieu; company of saints, little flock of the\nelect, assembling together of the chosen of God from Eternity!\n\nI awoke to find Grandmother standing by my bed; which was unusual, for\nI always woke myself.\n\n\"'Tis a great and notable day, my dear; the day you are to join with\nthe Lord's people in prayer and praise. I want to pray with 'ee.\"\n\nI got out of my bed, and when she had put around me the old red\ndressing gown, we knelt down together by the bedside, and the Lord was\nbesought to vouchsafe that my first public acquaintance with His People\nmight be abundantly blessed to me. After breakfast I was sent upstairs\nto my bedroom to meditate apart for an hour before Meeting; an exercise\nordained henceforward every Sunday of my life.\n\nAbout a quarter-past-ten we sallied forth, Mary in green corduroy\nbetween Grandmother in her Sunday black and Aunt Jael with her\ngo-to-Meeting blue-velvet-ribboned bonnet. I should now behold the\ninside of the Room, antechamber of Heaven; I should join in public\nworship with the Saints. Curiosity alone did not stir me; in some vague\nexalted way, I hoped to get nearer to the Lord.\n\nThe Room was a bare little tabernacle in a side-street, built in the\nNoah's Ark style dear also to Methodism. Grandmother took my hand as\nwe mounted the steps from the street; we passed into the Holy Place.\nI received at once the curious effect of a light bluish mist which,\nthough brighter, reminded me of the thick blue gloom of my attic, and\nwhich was caused by the light blue distempered brick of the walls\nand ceiling. There were eight windows in the Room, which was many\ntimes larger than our parlour and by far the largest place I had\never entered; each consisted of twenty-four small square panes, six\nin the perpendicular by four breadthways, a source for years to come\nof endless countings and pattern-weavings and mystical mathematical\ntricks. There were two of these windows at each end of the room, and\ntwo down each side. All eight were set so high as almost to merge\ninto the ceiling. The curious result was that while near the floor it\nwas comparatively dark, the upper part of the room was very light. A\nsymbol, I thought; for Earth is dark, but Heaven bright. Aunt Jael led\nthe way up a druggeted sort of aisle to the front row where we alone\nsat: the family's immemorial place, though purchased by no worldly\npew-rent. In the first rush of newness I but dimly apprehended the\nbenches of black-clad figures we had passed. Immediately in front of\nus stood the Lord's Table, covered with spotless white damask, and\nladen with two tall bottles of wine, two great pewter tankards, and two\ncottage-loaves on plates. Beyond the Table was a low raised dais from\nwhich the Gospel was preached at the evening meetings for unbelievers;\nnever used at the Breakings of Bread, for all Saints are equal, and\nnone may stand above his fellows. On either side of the Table, however,\nrespectively to our right and left were the (unofficial) seats of the\nmighty: Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge and Brother Brawn on one side, Brother\nQuappleworthy and Brother Browning on the other. On the wall at the far\nend was a clock, loudly audible in the abysmal silences of prayer.\n\nI did not absorb all the details at a first glance; nor do I really\nremember the particular texts, expositions and hymns of that\ninitiatory day. What I do always retain and rehearse in my mind is\nrather one \"Type\" meeting, from first silence to final benediction;\nan ideal combination of many different Lord's Days, in which I have\nunconsciously fitted together Brothers, events, homilies, each in most\ntypical essence.\n\nThis morning meeting, the Breaking of Bread, was the meeting par\nexcellence. The Breaking of the Bread and the drinking of wine were\nthe central acts of a tense and devout program of prayer, of reading\nand exposition of the Word, and of hymn-singing, unaccompanied by any\nchoir or instrument of music. Only Saints were bidden, i. e., those who\nhad testified aloud to the saving grace of the body and the blood,\nand had taken up their Cross in public baptism. We were no ordinary\nDissenting chapel, where \"All are welcome\":--the more the merrier,\nmore grist to the mill, more pennies on the plate, more souls for\nthe Kingdom. Only the Lord's own chosen testified people were deemed\nworthy of this solemn privilege of eating His sacred Body and drinking\nHis sacred Blood; and only they were admitted. The only exceptions\nwere a few children, like myself, who could not be left at home by\ntheir elders. A few non-privileged adults very occasionally came: old\nfriends of the Meeting who for some reason of reluctance or uncertainty\nwere untestified and unbaptized, or strangers, drawn by sympathy or\ncuriosity; but earthen platter and pewter mug were zealously snatched\naway if such alien hands essayed to grasp them. (So too was the\ncollecting-box. I have seen visitors with outstretched arm and generous\nshilling gasp with surprise as the money-box was drawn rudely out of\ntheir reach. Unlike worldlywise church or chapel, we would touch none\nbut hallowed gold. The collection was as close a privilege as the\ncommunion.)\n\nOn an average morning we were fifty or sixty strong; more women than\nmen, more old than young, more wan than hale, more humble than high.\nWith dough of small shopkeepers, masons, artisans, gardeners, old women\nwith pathetic private incomes, washerwomen, charwomen, servants, we had\nleaven of more comfortable middle-class people like Grandmother and\nAunt Jael, or \"better\" folk still like Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, or\nbest of all dear Brother Quappleworthy, our graduate of the University\nof Oxford, our cousin by marriage with a peer of England! Believers in\nthe aristocratic principle would have noted with satisfaction that from\nthis blue-blooded minority were drawn almost all the \"Leading Saints.\"\n\nWe were a community. The better-to-do helped the poor, and remembered\nthat all were equal before God. Odd folk and sane folk, stupid folk\nand wise folk: with all their failings, a more gentle, worthy, sincere\nand trustful company of followers of Jesus of Nazareth could not have\nbeen found in this whole world or century. The fault they were farthest\nfrom is the one the fool most often imputes: hypocrisy. They were, of\ncourse, a varied company; it takes all sorts to make a Meeting.\n\nOur Leading Brothers were Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, with Brothers\nBrawn, Browning, Briggs, Quappleworthy, Quick, and Quaint. The last was\nonly included just to round things off and to justify Mr. Pentecost's\nholy pleasantry \"The Lord is watching us: let us mind our B's and Q's,\"\nfor he was really quite an obscure brother who rarely broke silence,\nand then to pray so pessimistically that he can never have expected his\npetitions to be heard, let alone answered.\n\nTo be Leading Brother implied merely this: to stand out of the ruck\nof silent members, either in prayer or exposition of the Word. Many\nan obscure Brother, however, who would never have risked his hand at\nprayer or exposition occasionally blurted into a morning's modest fame\nby announcing a hymn. A stir of special interest was always felt in\nthe Meeting on such occasions, and it was whispered that \"the Lord was\nnotably working in Brother So-and-So.\" Giving out a hymn was after\nall not so mean a performance. Every line of every verse was slowly\nenunciated by the chooser before we began to sing. The church and\nchapel habit of reading out only the first verse (or even line!) struck\nme as very odd and meagre when I first encountered it many years later.\nPrayer, however, was the favourite form of self-expression. All the\nLeading Saints were \"powerful in prayer.\"\n\nExposition either followed or accompanied the reading of a portion of\nthe Word. It was our \"sermon.\" Our five regular expounders were Mr.\nPentecost, Brothers Quappleworthy (the chief), Brawn, Browning and\nBriggs.\n\nThough in theory we allowed no official ruler of the synagogue, in\npractice Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge was our Great High Priest. He alone\nwas spoken of as Mister. He alone was immune from error and criticism.\nIt is hard for me to reconstruct his personality now, when my own\nmentality is so different from when I knew him, when he prayed for\nme, blessed me, took me on his knees. It is still harder to convey to\nthis generation the reverence in which his venerable white hairs were\nheld. The world in which he ruled, the Saints' world, may have been\nsmall; but within its pale, through all England, he was revered as\nthe holiest child of man. And we of the Tawborough Meeting possessed\nhim for ourselves: in his old age he ceased to travel, and left us\nbut little. We shone in the reflected glory of his presence; knew\nourselves the Meeting of Meetings, called blessed of the Lord. He lived\nby prayer alone: the anonymous gifts of money on which he chiefly lived\ncame to him whence he did not know, except that they came from God. In\nthe old ancestral house another famous Pentecost Dodderidge had built\nhe still lived; in one hallowed room he welcomed all who came to him\nfor their souls' good; another was fitted as a workshop, and here till\nafter his eightieth year he spent a portion of every day at the lathe.\nHe could preach in eight languages, in five of them fluently. He never\nrose later than four and devoted the three hours before breakfast to\n\"knee-drill,\" i. e., incessant prayer. He baptized believers in the\nriver Taw till his eightieth year. One memorable immersion of which I\nshall speak later took place when he had turned eighty-four. His one\nkink was a trick of godly epigrams and holy repartees, cunningly led up\nto, of which he was as nearly vain as he could be. I remember Aunt Jael\nonce saying to him in our dining-room at Bear Lawn:\n\n\"Your 'Life' should be written, Mr. Pentecost.\"\n\n\"But it is being written, dear sister,\" he replied. \"It will be\npublished in the morning.\"\n\n\"Published? Where?\"\n\n\"Beyond the sky. The author is the Lord Jesus Christ. The ink is His\nprecious Blood.\"\n\nAnother day my Grandmother asked him if he would begin to remember me\nin his prayers.\n\n\"I cannot,\" he replied gently.\n\n\"Cannot?\" faltered my Grandmother.\n\n\"No, I cannot _begin_ to pray for her. I have begun already.\"\n\nFor all his eminence Pentecost took no preponderating share in worship,\nnor ever made himself like the \"Ministering Brothers\" of some other\nmeetings, who prayed almost all the prayers, chose almost all the\nhymns, gave one long sermon-like piece of exposition, and officiated\nalone at the Lord's Table--for all the world like a dissenting parson\nin his chapel or a priest in his church.\n\nSecond in importance stood Brother Brawn, a fat, doddering, bleating,\nweak-at-the-knees old bachelor and Christian; the maid-of-all-work of\nthe Meeting, who distributed the offertory, paid the caretaker, saw to\nthe heating and cleaning of the room, and bought the bread and wine.\nWith his white waggly little beard and gentle animal features he looked\nabsurdly like a goat, and ba-a-a-d just like one too. He had two little\nhomilies only, which he and we knew by heart; one on 'Ell and the other\non Mysteries, often given one after the other to form a continuous\nwhole. Some of the Saints, I fear, dared to think these holy discourses\ndull. Not so Miss Salvation Clinker, who declared that \"ivry word wat\nfalls from 'is blessed lips is a purl uv great price.\"\n\nBrother Quappleworthy, who stood equal in importance, was a striking\ncontrast. He was our intellect, our light of learning, our peer's\ncousin-in-law. His erudition in real Hebrew and real Greek ranked\nwith Brother Brawn's devotion, if a little lower than Pentecostal\nsaintliness. Sneer we never so smugly at the filthiness of mere book\nknowledge, not one of us but was somehow elated to hear that favourite\nphrase: \"Now in the original Greek--\" His supplications, if acceptable\nto many, were perhaps too much of a muchness. It was all \"Yea Lord, Nay\nLord, Oh Lord, Ah Lord, If Lord....\"\n\nAfter Brother Quappleworthy, Brother Browning was our most frequent\nspeaker. He came to Meeting accompanied by his little boy Marcus, the\nmost youthful person present save me, but not, alas, by his spouse, who\nbelonged, alas, to that pernicious sect of Bible Christians whom he\n(seven times alas) did occasionally himself frequent.\n\nThere was Brother Briggs, by vocation an oilman's handyman, whose face\nalways shone with oil of happiness and hope, whose utterances were\ncharged with an uncontrollable optimism and joy, a ringing, shouting,\nh-less content with the universe. The learned would call it cosmic\nexpansiveness. Beside him Walt Whitman was a prophet of despair, Mark\nTapley a misanthrope. His favourite word was \"bewtivul\" and he used\nit without mercy. There was Brother Quaint, the gloomy pray-er. There\nwas Brother Lard, who emitted from his mouth periodic noises--signs\nof bad manners and digestion--which it is unusual to mention on\npaper: endemic endeavours that punctuated the subtlest exposition of\nQuappleworthy, the dreariest prayer of Quaint's, and added a spice\nof charm and unexpectedness to the whole service. I enjoyed them\ncoarsely; with solemn face, pious unawareness. One joyous occasion I\nremember when Brother Quappleworthy was beginning the eighth chapter\nof the Revelation in his most impressive style. At the words \"There\nwas silence in heaven about the space of half-an-hour,\" he paused\ndramatically to illustrate, as it were, the meaning. Then, after\nfive seconds of rapt silence, Brother Lard trumpeted forth: long,\nloud, luscious, lingering; a diapason of swaying sound and chronic\nindigestion. To the eternal credit of my Grandmother and Great-aunt,\nI record it that they smiled.... There was Brother Marks, a thin\nunhappy-looking man, wearing large black-rimmed spectacles, who mourned\nin a far corner apart, and never uttered a word or even joined in the\nhymns. I thought him a sinister figure; his goggles repelled me; I\nassociated him by some vague but authentic impulse with the Personal\nDevil.\n\nThe Sisters were of course less important than the Brothers. \"Let your\nwomen keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them\nto speak.\" Above all the others towered Sister Vickary and Sister\nLee. My Grandmother was universally loved. Before Aunt Jael the whole\nmeeting quailed. Brother Briggs grovelled. Brother Brawn obeyed,\nBrother Quappleworthy deferred. She herself deferred to Pentecost\nDodderidge alone; indeed the veneration she felt for the venerable\ninstrument of her conversion, her Ananias of Damascus, was touching\nin so masterful a soul. In the ledgers of the Lord, I make bold to\nguess, it stands to her credit. In the counsels of the elders she was\nsupreme; she was the wise woman of the Proverbs. No decision affecting\nthe welfare of the flock could be taken by Pentecost or Brawn without\nthe assent of the Shepherdess, as the former called her, perhaps\nnot unmindful of her crook. No meeting felt it had the right--or\ncourage--to begin without her presence. When it was over, she walked\nout first, bowing to right and left like an Empress as she stalked the\nlength of the Room. She had as much common-sense as any other three\nSaints added together. Not a soul of them loved her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe arrived each Lord's day about twenty-five past ten. When all were\nassembled, there was a period of five or ten minutes' absolute\nsilence, broken only by the strident ticking of the clock. Some pairs\nof eyes were closed in silent prayer, others stared straight before\nthem at some heavenly object of reflection.\n\nUp rose Brother Browning. \"Let us sing together to the glory of\nthe Lord hymn number one-four-two: '_We praise Thee, O Jehovah!_'\"\nThere was a turning of leaves, for at this time most of us possessed\nhymn-books, though a few of the older generation, including Aunt Jael,\nviewed all hymn-books as snares of the Devil, and bore witness against\nthe fleshly innovation by still singing always from memory. Brother\nBrowning read aloud the whole hymn:\n\n\n    We praise Thee, O Jehovah!\n      We know, whate'er betide,\n    Thy name, \"_Jehovah Jireh_,\"\n      Secures, \"Thou wilt provide.\"\n\n    We praise Thee, O Jehovah!\n      Our banner gladly raise;\n    \"_Jehovah Nissi!_\" rally us\n      For conflict, victory, praise.\n\n    We praise Thee, O Jehovah!\n      In every trouble near;\n    \"_Jehovah Shalom_\"--God is peace,--\n      Dispels each doubt and fear.\n\n    We praise Thee, O Jehovah!\n      And, clothed in righteousness,\n    \"_Jehovah_\" great \"_Tskidkenu_!\"\n      Complete, we gladly bless.\n\n    We praise Thee, O Jehovah!\n      Thou wilt for Israel care!\n    \"_Jehovah Shammah_,\" precious thought!\n      Henceforth \"The Lord is there.\"\n\n\nWe sang sitting. Oh, inharmonious howl! Some Brother--usually Brother\nSchulz, who was fancied to possess musical talent--pitched the key and\nset the time as he fancied. The latter was always funereally slow, the\nformer more often than not much too high or too low to be persevered\nwith. Not that that mattered. Somebody would merely switch off into\nanother key anything from a semitone to an octave higher or lower as\nthe case might be: switching part of the way back again if the change\nproved too drastic. The consequence of this go-as-you-please policy was\nthat a hymn would sometimes be sung in four different times and seven\nor eight different keys. Above all the holy din you could hear Brother\nBriggs bawling forth his joy in the Lord; higher still the awful\nmetallic howl of Sister Yeo.\n\nWhen the hymn was done there was another space of complete silence till\nthe spirit moved Brother Quappleworthy to utterance. Once on his feet,\nhe found his two Bibles, English and Greek, rather difficult to wield,\nespecially as his reading from the Word hardly ever consisted of one\nsolid chapter read straight through, but of snippets of two or three\nverses each from half-a-dozen different books, connected only by their\n(imagined) relevance to the topic he had in mind: grace or trustfulness\nor hope or sin. We all followed him in our own Bibles: so that his\nReading had orchestral accompaniment of zealous page-rustlings. \"Let\nus read together in the Book of Genesis, that sixth chapter and those\nfifth, sixth and seventh verses ... and now let us turn to the Book of\nJob, the fifth chapter and the thirteenth verse ... and now a verse in\nthat sweet Second Epistle of Peter, the second chapter and that fourth\nverse....\"\n\nAfter we had rustled backwards and forwards for a few minutes, Brother\nQuappleworthy closed first one Bible and then the other with two\nemphatic snaps, and put them under his left arm, leaving his right\nhand free to gesticulate,--more especially the right forefinger,\nwhich ever and anon he brandished to exhort, to emphasize, to warn,\nto wheedle. \"Well, brethren, the upshot and outcome of all that we\nhave read is--ah--manifest. It is--ah--this. He alone saved us from\nthe pit. He alone, not--ah--another. He saved _us_--miserable sinners,\ngrovelling worms--us and none others. Far be it from us ever to think\nourselves worthy of such grace and favour! Far otherwise!--but so He\nwilled. Our souls--your soul, ah, my soul--would have gone into eternal\ndarkness save for Him, the Lord,--[Greek: Kyrios]--how I love it in\nthe old Greek! He alone, brethren, can--ah--renew our natures; and\ncan--ah--shape better desires for our natures when renewed--can show us\nthe more excellent way!...\"\n\nAfter a new silence, the spirit would move Brother Brawn to clamber\nto his feet, and give us his changeless utterance on \"'Ell\" or\n\"Mysteries.\" I give it with a word for word accuracy I cannot often\nvouch for. His _er-er_ was a bleating sort of stammer much less elegant\nthan Brother Quappleworthy's _ah_.\n\n\"My mind, brethren, 'as bin--er--er dwellin' much all through the\nmornin' on the subject of _'Ell_. On the torments and 'orrors that\nall the 'eathen and unsaved will taste down there below, yes, and are\ntastin' at this very minnit as we are praisin' the Lord 'ere in this\nRume. Torments and--er--er--er--'orrors. You know. I know. And they\ntorments are for _all_ the sinners an' unsaved: ivry wan uv them, not\nfor _some_ jis', as I've 'eard folk say. No for all, _all_, _ALL_,\n_A L L_. You mark my words. _All_ the _'eathen_ shall be _'urled_ to\n_'Ell_, _whether_ they've _'eard_ or _whether_ they _'aven't_!\" (This\nlast sentence he sing-songed with violent emphasis, clapping his hands\ntogether at the syllables I have marked) \"O Yes! I can imagine 'em\nwallering in the brimstone and sulphur. I know. _We_ shall be wi'\nLazarus in Abraham's--er--er--bosom, and _they_ will be down the fiery\ngulf, down in the fiery pit. So, brethren, let us be ready for the\nLord, let us make sure uv _our_ place in the bosom, not the pit. Bosom\nfor us! BOSOM! We must watch and er--er--pray. We must. I'm sure we\nmust.\"\n\nA pause. He shifted his feet clumsily. His thick lips moved stupidly as\nhe made mental preparations for Part Two.\n\n\"My mind, brethren, 'as been--er--er--dwellin' much on another subjict\nthis mornin', the subjict of Mysteries. It has; I'm sure it has. There\nare two mysteries. There is the mystery of godliness, that's one; and\nthe mystery of iniquity, that's two. It all 'appened at the Fall. The\nFall was when the mystery of godliness became the mystery of iniquity;\nan' the mystery of iniquity became the mystery of godliness; all\nmixmuddled up together as you mid say. It became 'ard to-er--er--tell\n'em apart. 'Tis only 'Is chosen ones as can do it--that's you and me,\nbrethren--and 'tain't orwis easy for us. Let us try to know one from\nthe other, and if we tries our 'ardest, the Lord will 'elp us to. Yes\n'E will. I'm sure 'E will.\"\n\nAfter Brother Brawn, the beginning of the meeting was well over. We\nknew that the great moments were drawing near. A deeper silence filled\nthe little room: the hush of pure holiness. There was a prayer or two,\nand then we sang the Bread hymn. Usually this one:\n\n\n    Through Thy precious body broken\n      _In_side the veil.\n    Oh, what words to sinners spoken--\n      _In_side the veil.\n    Precious, as the blood that bought us;\n    Perfect, as the love that sought us;\n    Holy, as the Lamb that brought us;\n      _In_side the veil.\n\n    When we see Thy love unshaken,\n     _Out_side the camp.\n    Scorn'd by man, by God forsaken,\n     _Out_side the camp.\n    Thy loved cross alone can charm us;\n    Shame doth now no more alarm us;\n    Glad we follow, nought can harm us;\n      _Out_side the camp.\n\n    Lamb of God! through Thee we enter\n      _In_side the veil.\n    Cleansed by Thee, we boldly venture\n      _In_side the veil.\n    Not a stain; a new creation;\n    Ours is such a full salvation!\n    Low we bow in adoration,\n      _In_side the veil.\n\n    Unto Thee, the homeless stranger,\n      _Out_side the camp.\n    Forth we hasten, fear no danger,\n      _Out_side the camp.\n    Thy reproach far richer treasure\n    Than all Egypt's boasted pleasure;\n    Drawn by love that knows no measure,\n      _Out_side the camp.\n\n    Soon Thy saints shall all be gathered,\n      _In_side the veil.\n    All at home, no more be scattered,\n      _In_side the veil.\n    Nought from Thee our hearts shall sever,\n    We shall see Thee, grieve Thee never;\n    \"Praise the Lamb!\" shall sound for ever\n    _In_side the veil.\n\n\nWe sang it to a slow drawling tune, incommunicably dreary.\n\nPentecost arose, white and priestly. \"Little children, every time I\ncome to this Table, I come with a joy, a peace and a gratitude that are\never new. My heart is too full of love for my Saviour for any words of\nmine to tell you. Let us bear in mind, little children, rather His own\nprecious words: This is my Body, which is given for you.\"\n\nAs he ceased, Brother Brawn arose from his seat at the right of the\nTable, took each of the loaves, held them sacrificially aloft, broke\nthem in twain. One plate he himself passed round among the Saints,\nBrother Browning the other. I watched with evergreen curiosity and\nreverence how each Saint broke off a piece of bread and with closed\neyes slowly munched it away. Once in a way the impious thought seized\nme that 'twas all farce, mummery, tomfoolery: this chewing of dough.\nThe next instant I would flush crimson to have let such wickedness find\nplace for an instant in my mind: I would look and behold the rapture\non the munching faces; and understand beyond all doubting that here\nwas something mystical, magical, holy. I could see that those who took\nbread obtained thereby some supernal joy that I was too young or too\nsinful to share. It could not be tomfoolery if it gave you the rapture\nI could see on the faces around me. Besides, Jesus had ordained it.\n\nAnother silence--the middle space of the double sacrifice--ere we sang\nthe Wine hymn:\n\n\n    It is the blood, it is the blood,\n      Which has atonement made;\n    It is the blood which once for all\n      Our ransom price has paid.\n\n    It was the blood, the mark of blood\n      The people's houses bore;\n    And when that mark by God was seen\n      His angel passed the door.\n\n    Not _water_, then, nor _water_ now,\n      Has ever saved a soul;\n    Not Jewish rites, but Jesus' stripes\n      Can make the wounded whole.\n\n    \"I see the blood,\" \"I see the blood,\"\n      A voice from Heaven cries,\n    The soul that owns this token true,\n      And trusts it, never dies.\n\n    For He who suffered once for all,\n      That we might life obtain,\n    Will never leave His Father's throne\n      To shed that blood again.\n\n\nBrother Quick, in a low voice trembling with passion, prayed that God\nwould make us worthy of this chief experience.\n\nThere was a moment of the holiest and most breathless silence I have\never known. I have stood alone at midnight when no birds sang, no leaf\nstirred, and the autumn stars shone silently through the unwhispering\nroof of a dark Russian forest. I have stood on the summit of the Great\nGable and gazed at the wild soundless mountains all around, in that\nwild soundless moment before the dawn arrives. But never except in\nthe Romish Mass, at that multitudinous most sacred moment when the\nheart stops beating, have I tasted so awful a silence as this, when\nthe Spirit of God moved in the hearts of our little company. I did not\ngreet Him in mine--not yet.\n\nBrother Brawn uncorked the two bottles of wine and filled the tankards.\nThe rapture on the faces round me was tenser than after the Bread:\nespecially, I thought, in Pentecost's and my Grandmother's. The longing\nto share it possessed me more and more every day as I grew up. I hoped\nthat at a very tender age I too might break the bread and drink the\nwine.\n\nThe third and last stage of the Meeting usually began with an utterance\nfrom Brother Briggs. If everything before had led up to the communion,\nBrother Briggs led on from it. He bellowed so loud that at times the\nroof rang. \"Aw, my dear brethering, after the cup us all 'ave tasted,\nthere be only one thing I'ze goin' to zay--Praise the Lawd, O my\nSowl! Praise ye the Lawd! I'm only a pore hignorrint zinner, but I\nknaws this yer: That Jesus zhed 'Is bled vur me, and that 'tis uv 'Is\nprecious bled as I've bin a-privil'ged to drink this mornin'. 'E 'ath\n'olpen hus! O 'ow I luv that word _hus_! O 'ow I luv that word _hus_!\nTurn wi' me to the gauspel accordin' to St. Matthew, chapter eight\nverse zeventeen: 'Imself took our infirmities and bare our zickness.\nPraise 'Im, zes I, praise 'Im! Let ivry thing that 'ath breath praise\nthe Lawd! Bewtivul! Bewtivul!\n\n\"Us shud orwis be praisin' 'Im, brethering, and us shud orwis be\n'appy in 'Is love. Orwis 'appy! If us be un'appy, 'tis along of this\nyer--that us 'ave bin drinkin' of zum voul stream, instead uv they\nvountains uv 'Is love. And us _are_ 'appy, arn't us, brethering? As I\nluke round at 'ee, all brothers and zisters, and zee what triumphs and\ntrophies of grace ye all be, I zes to missel', and I cries aloud to\n'eaven: Praise ye the Lawd! Bewtivul!\n\n\"'E 'ave dragged us up out of a _nor_ribull pit, a _nor_ribull pit, out\no' the moiry clay, and shed 'Is blid that us may live wi' 'Im vur iver\nand ivermore. Turn wi' me to the blessid gauspel according to St. Jan,\nthe sixth chapter and vivty-zixth verse, and 'earken to vat my Lawd zes\nthere: 'E that eateth my flesh, 'e zes, an' drinketh my blid, dwelleth\nin me, 'e zes, an' I in 'im. O 'ow I luv that word _'Im_.' O 'ow I luv\nthat word _'Im_! O the blessed thought: to dwell for iver in 'Im, an\n'Im in us! Bewtivul! Bewtivul! Bewtivul!...\"\n\nThen would he bellow forth and would we sing \"He sitteth o'er the\nwaterfloods\" or \"I hear the Accuser Roar\":--\n\n\n        I hear the Accuser roar\n        Of ills that I have done,\n    I know them well, and thousands more--\n        Jehovah findeth none.\n\n        Sin, Satan, Death, press near\n        To harass and appal;\n    Let but my risen Lord appear,\n        Backward they go and fall.\n\n        Before, behind, around,\n        They set their fierce array,\n    To fight and force me from my ground,\n        Along Emmanuel's way.\n\n        I meet them face to face,\n        Through Jesus' conquest blest,\n    March in the triumph of His grace,\n        Right onward to my rest.\n\n        There, in His Book, I bear\n        A more than conqu'ror's name,\n    A soldier, son, and fellow-heir\n        Who fought and overcame.\n\n        Bless, bless the Conqueror slain--\n        Slain in His victory;\n    Who lived, Who died, Who lives again,\n        For thee, dear Saint, for thee!\n\n\nBrother Brawn made the Announcements. On that first occasion,\nI remember, he made some reference to me (\"One of tender years\nworshipping with us for the first time\"), to my dedication to the Lord,\nand to his hopes that I might be made meet therefor.\n\nEverybody stared. I flushed, with infant conceit rather than pious\necstasy: it was my first appearance in public. After Announcements,\nthe Offertory. This was taken in a large square box divided into four\nslit compartments labelled in white painted capitals: MINISTRY, FOREIGN\nFIELD, POOR, EXPENSES. My Grandmother was always much exercised in\nher giving. Her own inclinations were more towards Poor and Foreign\nField, but she felt she ought not to neglect less showy and alluring\nExpenses nor coyer, more elusive Ministry. She would compromise between\nduty and pleasure by putting a sixpence in all four, with perhaps an\nextra copper or two in Poor; of her modest income giving half-a-crown\nto the Lord at this morning service alone. Aunt Jael with a rather\nlarger income (and no Mary to support) never gave more than a shilling\nbetween all four compartments. She also had a _penchant_ for Expenses:\nI suppose it pleased her--waywardly--as the least human of the four.\n\n(This fourfold collecting-box allowed a pleasurable width of choice,\nbut a quite different consideration had led to its introduction and\nthe supersession of the cloth bag formerly in use. During a period of\nseveral years a lump of sugar had been put in the bag every Lord's\nday at Breaking of Bread, and though clouds of prayer were offered up\nto soften the heart of the sinner-Saint who played this weekly prank\nupon his Meeting and his Maker, they were all of no avail. He (or she)\nhardened his heart; every Lord's day the bag was found to contain yet\nanother impious lump. Stare Brother Brawn never so stark at every\ngiving hand, the sinner remained undetected in his sweet career. It\nwas finally suggested by Aunt Jael that a new type of box, with but a\nnarrow slit for the coins to pass through, would baffle the evil-doer.\nThe choice-of-beneficiare partisans united with her, and they evolved\nbetween them this fourfold enormity, with its meat-dish dimensions\nand its four defensive slits. Vain precautions! Idle hopes! All the\nsugar-sinner did was to insert a much smaller piece than before;\nusually in Foreign Field. It was a marvel to the Saints how he squeezed\nit through; a tragedy how he persevered in his sin.)\n\nAfter the Offertory came perhaps another hymn and prayer; then the End.\nWe all stood up and sang the following:\n\n\n    When we will be\n    Where we would be,\n    When we shall be\n    What we should be,\n    Things that are not\n    Now, nor could be,\n    Then shall be--_ee_\n                      _Our own!_\n\n\nWhile we remained standing, Pentecost raised his hands in benediction.\nAnd so to dinner.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBreaking of Bread, though the principal service, was only one of five\neach Lord's Day at the Room, all of which I attended regularly before\nI was seven. There was but an hour at home for dinner ere I set forth\nfor Lord's Day School at half past one, which lasted for an hour and\nwas followed immediately by the Young Persons' Prayer-Meeting. I got\nhome for tea, after which we all sallied forth to the Gospel Address\nfor Unbelievers, usually delivered by Brother Browning, two hours\nlong and dreary beyond belief, in a ghostly atmosphere of guttering\ncandle-light. This was followed by another Prayer-Meeting, followed\nagain, at least in the summer months, by the Street Testimony, when we\nall repaired to the Strand, and gathered together a mixed circle of\nfriends and curious and scoffers--like the Salvation Army in the next\ngeneration. Even this was not the end; for at home there was Reading\nand prayers, just as on week-days. If I were more deadly-tired than\nusual after that awful Sunday, Aunt Jael would spin the prayer out and\nchoose a specially long chapter. Most Sundays I went to bed half sick\nwith fatigue, my head aching, hardly able to undress.\n\nSmiling was forbidden, and I had little reason to break the rule.\nTears, however, were allowed, and I shed them in plenty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf Breaking of Bread was not our only Meeting, nor was our Room the\nonly Meeting in the town. I knew of four others. First, the Grosvenor\nStreet Branch Meeting, offspring of ours, in the special care of\nBrother Quappleworthy, who preached there on Sunday evenings. Salvation\nalways derided my Grandmother and Aunt for calling it Grow-vner Street.\n\"I'm no scholard,\" she said, \"but tidden common-sense to mispernounce\nlike that. Gross-veener 'tis, and Gross-veener ollers 'twill be!\"\n\nSecond, there was the Close, Exclusive or Darbyite Meeting, ruled\nover by one Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, a giant-tall man with a flat\nwhite face, who reminded me of a walking tombstone. The Exclusives\nor Darbyites regarded us, I suppose, much as we regarded the rest of\nChristendom; as walkers in darkness. We regarded them as wandering\nsheep, foolish perhaps, rather than sinful. \"Those brethren,\" Mr.\nPentecost described them, \"whose consciences lead them to refuse\nmy fellowship and to deprive me of theirs.\" I never went to their\nTawborough Meeting while I was a child.\n\nThird, there was Brother Obadiah Tizzard's Upper Room for Celibate\nSaints, a kind of loft in which half-a-dozen old maids and two or three\nbachelors met together for meditation and breaking of bread. All were\nsingular as all were single. Their service was one of silent hymnless\nworship interspersed by personal quarrels; silence broken by backchat.\nThe last word as well as the first was with Salvation. Glory did duty\nfor Brother Lard; less vulgar if more incessant. All were sustained\nby the conviction of their unique fidelity to scripture. \"We break\nbread in an upper room,\" said Glory to my Grandmother time and again\non Tuesday afternoons, \"as did Jesus with the Twelve. We are poor an'\n'umble: an' so was Jesus. We are not wed, an' no more was Jesus. We\nshall go to heaven pure: an' so did Jesus.\"\n\nFourth, there was Ebenezer. The name was applied indifferently to the\nmeeting-room itself or to the one gentleman who attended it. He was\nthe Meeting, the whole Meeting, and nothing but the Meeting. He sat\non a bench for silent prayer all alone by himself, got up and read\nthe Word aloud to himself, mounted on a little dais and lengthily\nharangued himself, handed round the bread and wine to himself, and (for\nall I know) took the collection from and appropriated it to himself.\nEbenezer had once belonged to our Meeting, but in some occult way we\nhad displeased him, and he left us for Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom,\nleaving him also in turn for the straiter ways of Brother Obadiah\nTizzard. Him even too he left finally, to worship God in his own way\nall alone. I doubt if he was really mad: odd only, and nearer to Heaven\nthan Hanwell. His real name, if he had one, I never knew.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPerhaps I have said too much of the Meeting; for though the one great\npiece of the whole outer world I saw during many years, it was never\nmore than that: something I saw. I was never _of_ it, as of Eight Bear\nLawn. It never helped to fashion my child's life or longings, nor\ntouched at any time the _inside_ life I led: the real Mary.\n\nOne other thing stands clearly apart in my memory as taking place that\nfirst Lord's Day.\n\nAlone together at my bedside my Grandmother confirmed my dedication to\nthe Lord's service. She told me of her vision, renewed that day as she\nhad drunk the sacred wine, that I should serve Him as a Missionary in\nthe foreign field with glory and honour. She told me of the trials and\ntribulations I should have to face; but that if a faithful steward,\nI should find my reward in heaven. Then she read aloud my favourite\nseventh Chapter of Revelation. When she came to the fourteenth\nverse, _These are they which came out of great tribulation_, I could\nkeep silence no longer. I cried to her to stop. Words had already a\nmagical effect on me, and could throw me into ecstasy. All through my\nchildhood \"tribulation\" was big magic. Now it threw me into a trance of\ndisordered emotion and delight.\n\n\"O Grandmother,\" I cried, \"I will! I will! I will serve Jesus for\never! I am longing to go through tribulation, through lovely lovely\ntribulation!\"\n\nI broke into crying and laughing. I hungered to suffer, to embrace,\nkiss, adore, go mad, abase myself, throw myself on the floor before her\nfeet, love, hold, possess, be possessed, mingle.... Why could she not\nput her arms around me, seize me, comfort me, crush me?\n\nFor one imperceptible moment my child's soul _understood_. The moment\npassed; too swift to be retained, even remembered.\n\nHad I been dreaming? What was it all?... Yes, I had wanted something,\nsomething that Grandmother could not give, could not take.\n\n\"You're overwrought and tired, my dear,\" she was saying. \"What you want\nis a good sleep.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V: I GO TO SCHOOL\n\n\nNext morning Grandmother and I sallied forth. It was a bright spring\nday, with a high wind blowing. We went down Bear Street and along\nBoutport Street to where it joins the High Street; and just beyond, on\nthe far side of the road, saw the old ivy-coloured house whose door was\nto be my portal of worldly understanding.\n\nMy future instructresses, the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker,\nwere our only regular visitors at Bear Lawn. They were third cousins\nof a sort, though a social grade or two lower than ourselves, I\napprehended,--more Devonshirey, \"commoner\" than we. Tuesday after\nTuesday they came to our house for a long-established weekly afternoon\nof tea and godly discoursing. Glory was a tall, thin, bony old woman,\nwith a bleary far-away stare. She wore a faded black serge dress,\nwhereon the only ornaments were dribble-marks in front, which spread\nfan-wise from her chin to her waist; and a tiny black bonnet, tied\nround her chin sometimes by a ribbon, oftener by a piece of string,\nat one whimsical period by a strip of carefully-prepared bacon-rind.\nShe spoke little, chiefly of Death and the New Jerusalem, though\na perpetual clicking noise--represented most nearly by er-er-er,\nand variously explained--always kept you aware of her presence.\n\"_Life_,\" ran her favourite aphorism, \"_is but one long prercession\no' deathbeds_.\" She was quite mad, very gentle, wrapped in gloom, and\nbeatifically happy. Er-er-er-er was unbroken and continuous. You could\nhave used her for a metronome.\n\nSalvation was a saner, a coarser type: a noisy, aggressive woman,\nwhose chief subject of conversation was herself; a pious shrew with\na big appetite and a nagging tongue. She always ate an enormous tea,\nthough Aunt Jael, of whom alone in the world she was frightened, would\nsometimes keep her hunger roughly in check. Glory, on the other hand,\nalways brought special provisions of her own, and at tea-time made\nher own exclusive preparations. First she went into the far corner,\nwhere she had deposited a net-bag full of parcels. From this she\nabstracted a saucepan, a little spirit-lamp, a box of rusks shaped\nlike half moons, a bottle of goat's milk, a porringer and a great\nwooden spoon. She put the lamp on the floor, lighted it, boiled the\nmilk in the little saucepan, threw in six or eight of the rusks and\nstirred with the wooden spoon until she produced a steaming mush. She\ndidn't eat this, nor yet did she drink it; neither word describes the\nfearful and wonderful fashion in which she imbibed, absorbed, inhaled,\nappropriated it. Of every spoonful she managed to acquire perhaps a\nquarter; the other three-quarters strolled gently down her chin. As she\nwas short-sighted, and as when she ate she ignored her food and looked\nsteadily ahead at the glories of the New Jerusalem, she often missed\nthe spoon altogether. The noise she made was notable. Hence Aunt Jael\nalways refused to allow her to eat at our table, and consigned her to\n\"Glory's corner.\"\n\nThough I saw the Clinkers in our house Tuesday after Tuesday, I had\nnever yet beheld them in their own. My eyes fastened on the brass door\nplate:\n\n\n            The Misses Clinker\n\n    ELEMENTARY EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT\n\n            For the Daughters\n\n              of Gentlemen.\n\n\nThe top line was in elegant copy-book writing.\n\n\"Look, Grandmother,\" I cried, \"Misses is spelt wrong. Why do they put\nM-i-_f_-s-e-s? It's silly.\" I resented the absurd \"s\". My faith in the\ninfallibility of the twin Gamaliels at whose feet I was to sit was\ndashed on their very doorstep. Could the blind lead the blind?\n\n\"Why, 'tis often written that way,\" rejoined my Grandmother, \"'tis an\nold way of writing a double S. You've plenty to learn, you see.\"\n\nIf the first line was offensive to common-sense, the remainder of the\nnotice challenged mere truth. Elementary you could not gainsay, but\nEducational Establishment for a description of that frowsy den and\nthose two ignorant old maids was florid rather than faithful, while\nGentlemen as a term to connote the male parents of the client\u00e8le\nwas--even in the most dim and democratic sense of that unpopular\nword--just false. Finally, there were sons as well as daughters: some\nthree or four of the fifteen pupils who comprised the school.\n\nSalvation opened the door, grinning an aggressive welcome, but we were\nofficially received by Glory. \"Welcome! Welcome to this place!\" she\ncried impressively. I saw that the sisters' r\u00f4les were here reversed.\nGlory was as unkempt as ever, the \"black\" serge she wore shades greener\nthan her Tuesday afternoon one, and quite four inches higher one side\nthan the other. As next-worldly and bleary-eyed as in our house, her\npart here was the part of a Principal: Principal of an Educational\nEstablishment for the Daughters (yea and Sons) of Gentlemen. Salvation,\nscreech she never so loudly, was in this schoolroom but second fiddle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe schoolroom was an old-fashioned kitchen. The day's dinner was\ncooked before our eyes on a spit before the fire; the pupils acted as\nturnspits. The room was low, smoke-begrimed and dingy; the windows\nopaque with dirt. On the filthy walls were a print of the Duke of\nWellington (?), all nose and sternness, an old Map of the World on\nMercator's Projection with the possessions of the Spanish crown yellow,\nand the possessions of the British crown red, and many framed texts\nworked in white and blue wool. One huge text, worked in many colours,\nstood over the doorway: A ROD FOR THE FOOL'S BACK. Prov: xxvi. v. 3.\nThere were two classes, on different sides of the room. I was put\nwith the younger. They were all new faces, except one or two that I\nhad seen the day before at the Room. They were, indeed, the first\nchildren I had ever spoken to. In grown-up parlance the pupils would\nhave been dubbed lower-middle class, though Marcus Browning, whom I\nknew by sight because he lived in the Lawn in a house just opposite\nours, was as middle-middle class as Aunt Jael and my Grandmother. I\nfelt these distinctions perfectly, and regarded one Susan Durgles, a\nlank untidily-dressed fluffy-haired child of seven or eight, and the\nleading spirit in our class, with that feeling of quiet disdain which\nthe sureness of higher caste can alone bestow: her father was a mere\ncobbler in Green Lane, and while I looked at her as though I knew it,\nshe looked back lovingly as though she knew I did. Between Susan and\nmyself sat a pale thin child, Seth Baker, who had St. Vitus' dance. I\nhad never seen anything of the sort before, and stared more through\ncuriosity than pity as his slate and slate-pencil shook in his hand.\n\nThe first lesson was Rithmetick with Miss Glory called (vulgarly) by\nMiss Salvation Figurin'. With her best far-away look Miss Glory peered\nforth into eternity: \"If eggs be twenty-eight a shilling\" (they _were_\nin those days, at any rate in Spring) \"how many be you agwain to get\nfor, er-er-er-one poun' three shillin' and vourpence ha' penny?\"\n\nUp shot the grimy hand of little Seth Baker. \"Please'm, please'm,\"\nappealingly. He was always first and always right, but the rest of us\nwere not suffered to dodge the labour of calculation, as Miss Glory\nwould oftenest ignore Seth and drop on weaker members of the flock,\nmyself or Susan Durgles.\n\n\"Now then, Susan Durgles. 'Ee heard the question. How many\nthen-er-er-er-er-er-?\"\n\n\"Please'm, I-er-er-er-er-er-don't know.\"\n\nThis shameless mockery was allowed to go unpunished. My mind strove to\npicture Aunt Jael coping with a like impertinence. I imagined the black\nwrath, the awful hand upon my shoulder. With what new weapon would she\nscourge me? Scorpions, perhaps, if obtainable.\n\nDuring our mental arithmetic lesson, the advanced students at the\nother end of the room were receiving combined instruction from the\ndeputy-principal in crochet-work and carikter-formation. Miss Salvation\nwas shouting technical advice of the stitch, slip, three treble, four\nchain, and draw-through-the-first-loop-on-the-hook order, together with\nmore general instructions how to earn the joys of heaven and eschew the\nfires of hell.\n\nAfter a while the sisters changed places, and my efforts were\ntransferred from high finance to handwriting, called (whimsically) by\nMiss Glory, Penmanship. Miss Salvation distributed dirty dog-eared copy\nbooks. I was set to work on the last page, the Z page, of an otherwise\ncompleted and wholly filthy book, to reproduce fourteen times in\nzealous copper-plate: \"Zeal of Thy House hath eaten me up.\" Meanwhile\nMiss Salvation transferred to us her godly bawling as to the way we\nshould, or chiefly, shouldn't go: interlarding this with fragments of\nmore specialized holy information, which being entirely useless I have\nnever forgotten; e. g., which was the longest verse in the Word of God,\nand which was the shortest; the number of books in the Old Testament,\nand in the New; that \"straightway\" was the private and particular word\nof St. Mark, while \"That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the\nprophet\" was the chosen clich\u00e9 of St. Matthew.\n\nMiss Glory took turn with us again for the third lesson: Reading. Our\nbook was of course _The_ Book. One mouldy old Bible was passed round,\nand we read in turn from its brown-spotted and damp-smelling pages. I\nthink it was my first or second day that it fell to my turn to read\nfrom the eighteenth chapter of the Book of Genesis, where the Lord\nappeared unto Abraham in the plains of Mamre, and Abraham said unto\nthe Lord concerning the destruction of Sodom, Wilt thou also destroy\nthe righteous with the wicked? I knew the passage well, and read with\nrelish and excitement the diminuendo Peradventures.\n\n\"Good, my child, good. Your readin' is a credit to your dear Grannie\nand your dear Great-Aunt. You read it fine, as to the manner born.\"\n\nFor the first time in my life the enchanting incense of praise filled\nmy nostrils. I flushed, and while others read of Lot at the gate of\nSodom and what-not else, I ceased to listen. My heart was beating\nto this refrain: You read it fine--as to the manner born. So I was\ngood for something, for all Aunt Jael's daily blows and curses, my\nGrandmother's nightly She-is-weak-Lord-and-sinful petitions. I read\nfine!\n\nThe first day Mrs. Cheese called for me; but afterwards I was\nentrusted to Marcus Browning as escort. He was two years older: \"a\ngood child, not like some I could name\" (Aunt Jael), \"Born of Saints\"\n(Grandmother), and possessed of the more fleshly merit of also living\non the Lawn. We spoke little together.\n\nThe event I remember best of my first days at the Elementary\nEducational Establishment was a fight. Susan Durgles was for ever\nmaking fun of poor little Seth Baker's affliction. One day when Miss\nGlory and Miss Salvation were both out of the room Susan went a little\ntoo far.\n\n\"Look to 'im, look to 'im!\" she mocked. \"He looks like wan o' thase yer\nweather-cocks what wag and wobble about on the church steeple. Goes\nlike this, do he? Ha, ha. Can't help hisself, can't he, palaverin' li'l\nwretch?\" She flapped her hands in Seth's walrus way, and nodded her\nhead convulsively in mocking imitation of poor little St. Vitus.\n\nHe was a meek child, but this time he could stand it no longer. \"Dirty\ncobbler's lass!\" he cried, and banged Susan full in the face with his\nsmall clenched fist. A regular fight began. My sympathies were wholly\npro-Seth. Was not Susan the sneerer, the tormenter, the tyrant, the\nAunt Jael, and Seth the harried one, the oppressed one, the victim, the\n_me_?\n\nSeth punched and lunged and butted with his head. Susan slapped and\nshoved and scratched. The boy kicked in payment for the scratching,\nand the girl tore at his hair to get even for the kicks. Fair play and\nfair-weather methods went by the board. Rules are for the ring; when\nultimate things are at stake, a child's sneer at her schoolfellow's\ndeformity to be repaid, a nation's existence to be lost or won in war,\nthen red tooth and claw tear the paper conventions of sport asunder,\nand each side fights to win. Miss Glory returned to witness a bleeding\nand bedraggled pair still scuffling savagely. Not one of the rest of us\nhad dared or wished to intervene. Very properly Miss Glory decided that\nwe were the guiltier ones, and while the two principals amid tears of\ngradual forgiveness were hustled away to soap and water, we lookers-on\nhad to stand up on our forms for one solemn hour with our hands behind\nour backs while Miss Glory preached us a sermon; the text being Matthew\nfive, nine.\n\nA brighter feature of school-life was the frequent sweetmeats brought,\npassed round and devoured. There were chocolate drops, sticks of\nSpanish, peppermint humbugs, jujubes, lollipops and toffees. I had\nnever tasted such dainties before.\n\n\"Wude 'ee like a sweetie?\" asked Susan Durgles one day.\n\n\"Yes please,\" said I.\n\n\"Quite sure, are 'ee?\"\n\n\"Yes please. Please give me one.\"\n\n\"Nit likely, nit likely,\" she sneered.\n\n\"But why?\" I flushed, not understanding.\n\n\"Why? And a very gude raison fer why. 'Cause 'ee gobble up other volks'\nsweeties fast enough, but you'm not so slippy about bringin' any of yer\nown fer _me_ to eat, are 'ee? Nit likely.\"\n\nI felt as though she had struck me in the face. All the other children\nwere looking and listening. It was not that I ever had any sweets of\nmy own which I consumed in greed and secret, it was not that I had any\nmoney, or hope of money, for buying any. The sting of Susan's words lay\nin this: that I ought to have seen and pondered on the fact that while\nI took all that was offered me I offered nothing in return. I was in\nthe wrong, and therefore all the angrier.\n\n\"You wait!\" I cried. My tone was not too confident, for in a second's\nrapid survey I could not see the how or the wherewithal of obtaining\nsweets to fling at Susan. It must however have been confident enough to\ninspire her with a lively sense of joys to come.\n\n\"I didn't mean nort. Only my li'l joke. Have a lollipop--or two.\"\n\nOn the way home I left Marcus Browning in silence, and evolved plans.\nSuppose I were to ask Aunt Jael to give me a penny! My heart beat\nat the thought. I rehearsed to myself my opening \"Please Aunt Jael\"\na score of times. Such rehearsings, inspired by my timidity, served\nalways to increase it. Then I remembered a bottle of acid-drops in the\nmedicine cupboard in the bedroom. Dare I beg a few? Or _take_ a few?\nsuggested the Tempter, take being His pretty word for steal. This was\nthe easier plan, but I shunned its dishonesty. I would ask her _first_.\nOr ask even for the penny, I decided, if at the moment I found courage\nenough.\n\nAll the way through dinner I put off making my appeal. Several times\nI moistened my lips and came to the very brink, where the glimpsed\nprecipice of Aunt Jael's wrath drove me back. Yet brave the precipice I\nmust, or tumble into the abyss of Susan's scorn on the morrow.\n\nAt last I blundered in, heart beating and face flushed: \"Please may I\nhave a penny?\"\n\n\"A penny?\"\n\n\"To buy some sweets.\"\n\n\"Highty-tighty! Don't you get enough to eat here? Never heard of such a\nthing. Your Grandmother and I never had pence for sweetmeats and such\ntrash. Be off with you.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"No buts here.\" The thorned stick stamped the floor. Grandmother\nconcurred.\n\nFair means had failed. I would try foul. By her meanness she had forced\nme to help myself to her acid-drops. My guilt be on her head.\n\nI waited until she was well away into her after-dinner doze, and\nGrandmother safely closeted for her afternoon's study of the Word. Then\nI stole softly up to Aunt Jael's bedroom. Her physic-cupboard was on\nthe far side of the bed. It had a sliding door; inside there were four\nshelves, the bottom shelf dedicated to Aunt Jael's night-needs. At\nevery watch she fed. Once or twice I had slept with her, and discovered\nthat though she had rusks and beef-tea just before getting into bed\n(soon after a heavy supper) and rusks and a cup of green tea while she\nwas dressing (just before a heavy breakfast), yet she got out of bed\ntwice during the night to brew herself a potion and chew old crusts or\ngingerbread-nuts or rusks. The bottom shelf was complete with every\naccessory of these four bedroom feasts: spirit lamp, matches, saucepan,\ncups; green tea, Ceylon tea, beef-tea, meat extract, herbs of divers\nproperties and powers; gin, cowslip wine, elderberry wine, brandy; with\nmany tins devoted to gingerbreads, half-moon rusks (bought at the same\nbaker's as Miss Glory's), seed-cake, Abernethy biscuits, and old crusts\nrebaked in the oven. The upper shelves bristled with medicine bottles\nand jars. These were grouped methodically according to the ills they\ncombated. There was a cough-and-colds corner. For burns scalds and\nchaps, bruises weals and wens, there was poor-man's-friend, a great\njar of goose grease, and a small white pot of mixed whitening, most\ndrastic of all; often my Grandmother used it on my body after a bad\nbeating, fitly borrowing Aunt Jael's whiting to ease the marks of Aunt\nJael's stick. The particular galaxy of bottles from which Grandmother\nhad oftenest to beg and borrow for me consisted of various telling\nencouragements and exhortations to those like myself whose mills ground\nslowly and withal exceedingly small. Castor oil, Epsom salts, senna\npods, fennel seeds and roots of jalep: I knew them all. It was to King\nSenna I answered swiftliest (five pods to be soaked in a tumbler of\nwater for a few hours, and drunk last thing before retiring to bed); to\nreplenish this jar meant frequent visits to the druggist's, for which\nmy Grandmother paid. To pods she added prayers. Whenever the last thing\nbefore retiring chanced to be the tepid tumblerful, the last thing but\none was always a supplication to Heaven to speed the parting dose. \"O\nLord,\" pleaded my Grandmother on her knees, \"Bless the means! Bless the\nmeans, Lord; and if it be Thy will grant her relief!\" But Aunt Jael\nrelied on worldly remedies exclusively. Her medicine cupboard was her\nshield and buckler, and like the cupboard in the front room downstairs,\nministered to her pride of possession also. And the night-life made\npossible by that festive bottom shelf! O 'twas a Prince of Cupboards, a\nvineyard planted with bottles.\n\nToday I had eyes for one bottle only. I reached it down, and regarded\nthe precious objects which would confound the sneers of Susan. Thief!\nsaid a voice within, as I tipped the bottle up and curved my other hand\nto receive.\n\nSusan's sneers! urged the Tempter. How just they are, and how they\nwound you! I hung doubtfully; the acid-drops' fate and my own trembled\nin the balance. I remembered how Aunt Jael counted everything. For\na certainty every acid drop was counted; she would miss the meanest\ncouple, and then the sequel! No, I dare not.\n\nThe moment my indecision was over, I was braver. Once I had decided\nI dare not eat any, I dared to reflect how pleasant they _would have\nbeen_ to eat. It was the bravery of cowardice, that valour that is\nthe better part of discretion. I smelt the bottle's mouth long and\nlongingly. Suddenly the fair odour inspired in me a new idea. I would\njust suck the drops, and then put them back. They were of the shiny\nsort, which judicious sucking would hardly change; not your dangerous\npowdery acid drops, which merest touch of the tongue transforms. I set\nto sucking as evenly as possible, so that none would look smaller than\nthe rest. They were delicious, and I enjoyed recompense for my noble\ndecision not to steal. Suddenly my heart stood still. The door-handle\nturned. To fling the bottle into its place in the cupboard, and slide\nthe cupboard door to, was the work of a fevered moment. Aunt Jael\nentered. She must surely have seen. My guilt was clear, for all the\nlook of meekness I sought to wear. She had her suspicions too of\nwhat the guilt was: she seized my arm and ducked her nose down to my\nmouth to confirm them. Acid-drops have a tell-tale odour, unique,\nunmistakable. My smell bewrayed me. Out of my own mouth I stood\nconvicted.\n\n\"I thought as much,\"--even for her the words came grimly--\"how many\nhave you stolen?\"\n\n\"None, Aunt Jael.\"\n\nThere coursed through my veins the perverse exultant delight of her\nwho utters a great white lie. Not for anything would I have told a\ndownright falsehood. Here was an answer true as Truth herself--sucking\nis not stealing--yet by the look (and smell) of things plainly false.\nAunt Jael darkened.\n\n\"I-have-not-stolen-one. I-have-not-eaten-one,\" I repeated, noddingly.\n\n\"Liar, black little liar!\" she shouted. \"The rope-end at last; you'll\ntaste it now.\"\n\nShe rummaged under the bed. As she barred the egress by the foot of the\nbedstead, I scrambled over the bed, gained the door, and fled to the\nattic. She was after me at once, wielding the famous weapon, a good\nyard of stout old ship's rope, a relic of Grandfather Lee or maybe\nGreat-Grandfather Vickary. In the middle of the attic stood a large\nelliptical table. Round and round it she chased me. It was a defiance I\nhad never shown before. She was appalled. I was appalled. Defiance was\na quality she never encountered, and now for meek miserable little me\nto show it! Her features were a livid blue-black. She lashed out with\nthe rope frequently; I dodged and ducked. The attic was wide enough\nfor me to elude her reach. In a corner I should have had no chance;\nso Knight of the Round Table was the part I played. Once the rope\ngrazed my shoulder. After ten minutes perhaps, the part of slasher at\nemptiness had become so undignified that Aunt Jael suddenly stopped. A\nruse? A minute's rest before a last wild spring for victory? No; for\nshe could hardly breathe. Then she gave me a long cruel stare, eyes\nsaying _I Will Repay_: for all my defiance I cowered. She went out,\nslammed the door behind her, and stumped heavily down the uncarpeted\nattic-stairs.\n\nThe heat of battle over, my spirits sank. Why had I defied her? There\nwas no ultimate escape. For every gesture of defiance, every moment\nof that round-the-table chase, she would repay me a hundredfold. Yet\nwhat else could I have done? If I had owned up to _stealing_ her sweets\nand thus (perhaps) incurred a lesser wrath, I should have owned up to\nsomething I had not done. I should have lied. I had told the truth\ninstead, and my only reward was a clear conscience. (I was staring, as\nso often, at the great blue picture on the wall, whose deep violet blue\nseemed to be toned down by the cold grey-blue of the room; an old print\nof some tropical sea with a volcano belching forth fire, smoke and lava\nin the background,--the Caribbean Sea perhaps, with one of the Mexican\ncraters, or the Mediterranean with Vesuvius; a gaudy gorgeous thing\nsuch as sailors buy on their travels.)\n\nI waited over an hour before risking a descent. When I turned the\nhalf-landing by Mrs. Cheese's bedroom door, I sprang back. There\nbeneath me, sitting on the stairs, her feet on the main landing just\noutside her bedroom door, was Aunt Jael. A small table was drawn up to\nthe foot of the stairs. A good tea was spread thereon; she was eating\nand drinking heartily. I spied the rope by her side; she heard my\nfootsteps above her, and her hand closed on it. I went back. She meant\ngrim business. Still, she could not stay there all night. I sat down\noutside the attic door and listened. Mrs. Cheese cleared away her tea\nthings, grumbling; Grandmother came up to her, gently remonstrating.\nShe stayed on. Darkness set in. I heard her stamp the floor for Mrs.\nCheese to bring her supper. After all, she might stay there for the\nnight: knowing her will to be not weaker than mine, I put my self in\nher place, and I felt almost sure she would. I was hungry, and there\nwould be no escape. Escape I must. How? My first plan was that Mrs.\nCheese--Aunt Jael would have to get up to let her pass, I reflected,\nsince either one of them was as broad as the attic staircase--should\nbring me something to eat when she came upstairs to bed. Then I could\nsurvive till the morrow, sleep on the attic floor, and confound Aunt\nJael. I would show her who had the stronger will. The weak point of\nthis notion was that I could not shout instructions to Mrs. Cheese to\nbring me something to eat, nor rely on her doing it unprompted. A more\ndesperate plan suggested itself, and before I had time to shrink back,\nI put it into action.\n\nI slid down the banisters and took a flying vault safely over Aunt\nJael's head and the little supper table in front of her. If there had\nbeen a big open space beyond, all might have been well. Unfortunately\nthe banister that surrounded the sort of well in which you saw the\nground floor began only a yard beyond Aunt Jael's door; my flying feet\nknocked against it, and I fell; I was hurt badly, and could not get\nup. In a second Aunt Jael was up, and at me with the rope, savagely.\nShe saw I was in pain and helpless, so lammed the more brutally. I\nscreamed. Grandmother came running upstairs, and with a strength and\ndaring she rarely used wrenched the rope from her sister's hands.\n\nI limped downstairs.\n\n\"Before you eat, child, confess your lie, and apologize to your aunt\nfor telling it.\" Grandmother was unwontedly stern.\n\n\"What lie?\" I did not flinch.\n\n\"Smell her! Smell her!\" shouted Aunt Jael.\n\n\"Mary, in all her life your mother told not one single lie.\"\n\n\"It's not a lie,\" feebly. \"I swear it,\" pitiably.\n\nAt last Grandmother succeeded where Aunt Jael had failed (this was a\nlittle sub-triumph in my defeat). I told the true version and for all\nthe Tempter's hints I knew that my Grandmother was right that evening\nwhen in our bedside prayer she pleaded, \"Forgive her, Lord; in her\nheart she lied!\"\n\nNext day, I learnt from Mrs. Cheese that the bottle of acid drops had\nbeen flung by Aunt Jael into the ashpit. I rescued it, and pocketed the\ncontents, which were stuck together like a coarse hard sponge, emerald\nbright. There were thirty-seven in all. By the distribution of this\nlordly largesse I rose high in the esteem of the school. A pocket full\nof acid drops: my position was assured. None doubted their virginity,\nall consumed them with zest. Thus did I triumph over Susan Durgles, who\nsucked humbly; humblier, had she known that another had sucked before\nher.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSchool took but a small place in my life. The music-lessons I began\nto take at home were much more to me: for piano-playing was a worldly\nluxury some generous whim of Aunt Jael's supplied. Her reward was her\nown loud announcement, whenever topics even remotely musical were\nmentioned, \"_I_ pay for the child's music.\" These lessons, and a\nvery occasional dress and hat--once a pair of mittens--were all she\ncontributed to my upkeep in all those years. I am glad it was never\nmore. She had no call to do it, she often explained. Well and good:\nI had no call to be beholden to her. All my expenses, nothing heavy,\nbut heavy enough for a light purse, were borne by my Grandmother: and\nthus at the end of their lives, Aunt Jael had three times as much to\nbequeath as her sister. Grandmother accepted five pounds a year from\nmy great-uncle John on my behalf, refusing his offer of more, and\ntaking nothing of what my father's relatives had proposed from the\nbeginning. Yet she would have laughed, and the mirthless Saints would\nhave laughed, if you had called her proud. Meanwhile, because of these\nmusic lessons, Aunt Jael cried her generosity from the house-tops. I\nlittle cared: I was grateful. I could soon play all the simpler tunes\nin Hoyle's Anthems.\n\nMy life was still entirely spent in the Bear Lawn household; I was\nnever allowed to see anything of the other schoolchildren, Saints or\nno Saints, beyond school hours. None ever crossed our threshold, nor\nI theirs. I watched the daily struggle between the two old women,\nGrandmother and Great-aunt. I read the Word. I prayed, and I lived wild\nlives within myself. I was for ever visualizing, thinking out dramas\nin which I and those I knew would figure, living in a self-fashioned\nself-fancied future, deciding on lines of conduct in innumerable\nsituations I invented. At this time my imaginings did not run, as with\nmegalomaniac little boys, to ambitious futures for myself: great\nsounding deeds done before admiring multitudes. My castle building was\nconditioned by the narrow humble life I knew. The stuff of my dreams\nwas my own hates and loves.\n\nAt this early time my surest emotions were I think three: hate of my\ntyrant aunt; longing for some one to love and some one to love me; fear\nof eternity and hell. I would play with these terrible ideas sometimes\nwith the cheerfulness natural to six-years-old, more often with the\ndespondency more natural to myself. Hate achieved no triumph of hate\neven, would eat itself out miserably and everlastingly in my visions as\nhate always. Longing was never appeased; love would never come to me.\nFear was justified of her child.\n\nA cheerful vision I conjured up was Aunt Jael on bended knee before me,\nmaking a hoarse and humble appeal to be forgiven for her wrong-doings,\nto be shriven of her many sins. I revelled in the delightful picture.\nHow I dealt with it depended on my mood. If it was soon after a beating\n(a real-life beating) my conduct would be just, stern, inexorable. \"Go\nto, thou vixen, thy judgment awaits thee!\"; and I would deliver her\nover to the tormentors. If beatings of late had been few or frail,\nand a sentimental rather than revengeful mood held me, then I would\nact with a high Olympian generosity, imagination's sweetest revenge,\nand lifting her gently to her feet would say \"Thy sins are forgiven\nthee--Go, and sin no more!\"\n\nI often tried to create an imaginary person to love, some one I could\nembrace and be embraced by. Once I got as far as picturing a face for\nperfect loving, but I found that it was the spirit, the soul, the\nperson who gave you love, and my perfect face (a dark young girl's)\nthough I named it Ruth Isabel, remained a face and a name only. There\nwas no real Ruth Isabel behind the face; so she faded away. I had one\nsuccess, one consolation. By a hard effort--closed eyes, clenched fists\nand fervid prayer to God--I could sometimes picture my dead mother so\nvividly, that I could literally feel and return her embraces. She was\nclad always in white; her face was warm, and glowed. \"Kiss me, Mary,\" I\ncould make the vision say, though whensoever I put out my hungry arms\nto draw her closer to my breast, the vision fled.\n\nOf my chief fears, hell and eternity, the first was always terrible--I\npictured it in all the luxurious completeness of horror Brother Brawn\ndescribed--yet I had this comfort: I believed in the Lord, and He\ncould save me. But save me for what? He rescued me from hell to grant\nme eternity in heaven, and from His boon there was none to rescue me.\n_Eternal life!_ Once my brain attempted to grapple with everlastingness\nand to think out the full frightful meaning of _living for ever_, I\nsickened with fear. There was no escape: ever: anywhere. A terror,\nunanswerable, unpitying, controlled me. One way out of it, one mad\nchild's trick to cheat Infinity was to convince myself I had never been\nborn. \"You're not real!\" I would say to myself, \"You're only dreaming\nyou're alive. You're a dream of God's. You have never really lived, so\nyou can never really die. So you escape eternity. You cannot live for\never, if you are not alive at all!\"\n\nThis belief I helped by staring into my own eyes in the glass, my face\nclose up to its reflection. After a minute or two, a tense expectancy\nwould seize me. I was elated, exhilarated.\n\n\"Mary, what are you, who are you?\" I cried to the face in the mirror.\n\nMy own voice sounded strange and far away, belonged to some one else,\nproved that _I_ had no voice, that there was no real me, that I was\nAnother's dream.\n\n\"What are you? What are you?\"\n\nThe exhilaration and the expectancy grew. I was on the brink of solving\nthe mystery of all life: my child's mind would find what the universe\nwas, what _I_ was.... The exaltation was almost more than I could bear.\nI kissed wildly the reflection of my own mouth in the mirror. Suddenly,\nimperceptibly, elusively, the great hope vanished. There was a swift\nreaction in my mind and body, and I half swooned away on to a chair.\n\nIn other moods my picturings were completely black. I saw my future as\nan unbroken series of savage triumphs for Aunt Jael. She discovered\nnew and horrible beatings. I should be left quite alone with her:\nGrandmother would die. She would flog me from morn till night, always\nbrutally, always unjustly. Or I would think of love as a thing I should\nnever, never know. I pictured myself a lonely old woman, loved by none,\nloving none. Or, if I thought of hell, I doubted my salvation, and\nsuffered in imagination all its pains. Or, with eternity, the fiction\nthat I was not alive failed me dismally. I pictured myself sitting for\never on a throne near God, bearded and omnipotent. A billion years\nrolled away, I was still no nearer the end, no nearer escape from my\nsoul, from life, from me. Sometimes I shrieked. My cries rent heaven.\nGod motioned the golden harps to cease and consigned me to the torments\nof hell. I was borne downwards at incredible speed by two bright angels\nwho, as we got lower and lower, took on the shape of devils. They cast\nme shrieking into the lake of fire and brimstone. Sometimes in heaven I\ncould keep my agony mute. This was no better. Amid the angels' psalmody\nthere rang in my heart like a beaten bell: _For ever, for ever, for\never!_--taunting me into a supreme feverish effort to think _For ever_\nout. Then came the last moment, the crisis of hypnotized fear, as my\nfinite mind flung itself against the iron door of the Infinite. The\nstruggle lasted but a few seconds, or I should have gone mad. Then the\nwarm back-rush of physical relief as the blood poured back into my\nbrain.\n\nI came to believe there were two persons in myself, two distinct souls\nin my body. It was my way of accounting for the two strangely different\nmanners of thought I experienced. I thought and felt things in an\nordinary, conscious, methodical way--the self-argumentative, cunning,\ncareful little girl that most often I was. At other times, ideas,\npromptings, wishes, beliefs came to me in quite different fashion--or\nnot so much to me as from within me, from some inner source of my\nbeing. They coursed through my blood and stormed my brain; they were\nblind, warm, intuitive; supernatural, sudden. There is no one word\nin my vocabulary, still less was there in those seven-year-old days,\nto define or explain this distinction. It was no matter of Reason\nwith Common-sense on the one hand, and Conscience or Instinct on the\nother. Conscience--\"God knocking at your heart's door,\" Grandmother\ncalled it--is a very incomplete description; at most it could apply\nonly to the good promptings of the other Self. For the reverse reason\nInstinct will not suffice. It was no question of two modes of thought\nor feeling, but of two persons inhabiting my body. The Mary Lee every\none saw and knew was the two of them taken together. I called them Me\nand the Other Me. I felt the difference between them in a physical way.\nWith the more usual self, my blood flowed gently, my pulse was normal.\nThe other self marched through my flesh like an army with banners; the\nhand of this more mysterious me literally knocked at my heart; she came\nfrom some deep inmost place and vanished as swiftly as she came. She\nwent; my pulse flagged.\n\nMy loneliness too encouraged the sociable idea that there were two\npeople inside me--Two's company, one's none! In bed or blue attic,\nduologues were better than monologues: but as a rule I could not\narrange these, because Other Me blew where she listed; I could never\nfix her for a talk as I chose. She came with some sudden word or\nwarning, prompting or precept--and was gone. When I was bent on some\nmoment's peccadillo, she--he?--would come, whisper \"It is wrong\"; for\none moment the whispering voice was my voice, the voice of another Me,\na new person and soul whose being seemed to flood my veins. She fled,\nand I was alone again. The way I tried to formulate the experience\nwas this: One is my normal human sinful Self, is Me, Mary; Two is the\nSpirit of God possessing me, the movement in me of the divine, the\nindwelling spirit, the Holy Ghost made manifest in my flesh. I saw it\nall as a special privilege, a new proof that the Lord had set me apart.\n\nSometimes the two selves battled for mastery. I thought that one thing\nwas the right course to follow, and felt that another was. I knew it\nwas the _feeling_ I ought to obey, though sometimes I was not positive\nof its divine, Other Me, Apostolic quality. In such cases my plan was\nto count thirty-seven--aloud as a rule--and if at the end of my count\nthe impulse was still in me, I obeyed it. The test itself was of course\nof _Other_ origin. \"In cases of doubt, count thirty-seven\" came to me\none day with a warm lilt of authority I did not question. I adopted it\nas my sacred number for all emergencies. When Aunt Jael was flogging\nme--I remember well how it helped me in that rope-end beating after I\nhad sucked the sweets--I would shut my eyes and see if I could count\nthirty-seven between each stroke. Success depended on my rate--and\nhers; in any case the mere endeavour seemed to lessen the pain.\n\nNote, too, that there were thirty-seven acid drops in the fatal bottle,\nand that my favourite psalm, number 137, was on page 537 of my old\nBible:--Heavenly proofs of the pure metal of my golden number.\n\n\n    (Note: This chapter in my notes fills exactly 37 pages!-M. L.)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI: CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, THE SCARLET WOMAN AND THE GREAT GOD\nBENAMUCKEE\n\n\nThat rope-end beating was a bad one, but I can remember worse. The\nworst one of all came a year or so later, when I was about seven\nyears old, and formed part of a series of events that stands out with\npeculiar clearness in my memory.\n\nIt all began with porridge lumps.\n\nOne morning Aunt Jael went into the kitchen before breakfast, and began\nstirring at the porridge pan and looking for something to grumble at.\n\n\"Lumps!\" she cried angrily. \"Lumps! What's this mean? 'Tis a pity if a\nwoman of sixty don't know how to cook a panful of porridge. Or too idle\nto stir it, most likely. Lumps! Lumps!\"\n\nMrs. Cheese lost her temper: the end desired.\n\n\"What d'ye expect? Do 'ee think I cude see to the stuff while I'm\ntrapsing up and downstairs to yer bedrume all the time waiting on 'ee\n'and an' foot, an' you thumpin' and bangin' away wi' yer stick ivry\nblissid minute? I can't be in two places at once, and I ain't agwain\nter try. Lumps indade! I've 'ad enuff o'n. You do'n yersell, ol' lady.\"\n\nWhereupon did Aunt Jael aim the lid of the pan at Mrs. Cheese's head,\nwhich it just managed to miss. A frying-pan full of half-cooked\npotatoes lay to the wronged one's hand for retort perfect. She mastered\nthe dear temptation when she saw my Grandmother quietly edging up\ntoward Aunt Jael; found vent instead in bitter irony. Sarcasm hits\nsurer than sauce-pan-lids, and harder.\n\n\"Behavin' like a true Brethering, aren't us? Like a meek bleatin'\nChristyun lamb as doesn't know it's weaned? I tells yer straight, Miss\nVickary, I crosses your doorstep this same day. Ye'll be done wi' yer\nlumps termorrer.\"\n\nGrandmother contrived to calm her down till she consented to stay after\nall; and, with more difficulty, to close her sister's mouth.\n\nMrs. Cheese, however, was not the one to sit down under a saucepan\nlid, and I think it was revenge, joining forces with a long-repressed\nlove for a good \"tell,\" which prompted her to close the kitchen door\nthat afternoon when the dinner things were put away, and to sit down\nto tell me a story. She had once begun to speak to me of fairies, and\nAunt Jael's reproof was too violent and too recent for her to have\nforgotten. Rather it was that she remembered it, and rejoiced, as she\nposed me the unfamiliar sweet question:\n\n\"Wude 'ee like me to tell 'ee a story?\"\n\n\"Yes, please, Mrs. Cheese.\" I cocked my ear. Far away in the\ndining-room the dread one snored.\n\n\"Wall then. This tale is all about what a sailor-man did. Even '_er_\"\n(she jerked her finger in the proper direction) \"cude say nothin' agin\nit, for 'tis all true. 'Tis true gospel, I'll be blummed if tidn':\ntho', Dear Lawr, some o' the things is that wunnerful that if a body\nhad told me, and I did'n _knaw_ fer certain that 'twas all true, and\nall written 'pon a buke that the party wrote hisself, I shude 'a zed\nthey was lyin', I shude railly. 'Tis'n everybody, you knaws, as lives\na life like we, always quiet and peaceful like, always the same ol'\nplace. There's many volk, sailor chaps and sich like fer the bettermos'\npart, that has middlin' excitin' times in these yer vorrin parts, and\nzees the most wunnerful things. Wall, this one chap in partic'lar lived\nfor thirty year all alone on a desert island with not another soul to\npass the time o' day with, thirty years I tell 'ee if 'twas a day.\nRobinson Crewjoe 'is name was--\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"'Cos fer why? 'Cos that's what 'e were caaled, o' course, silly\nmump'ead! Anyway, there 'twas. Some say 'e 'ad 'is wife and childer to\nthe island with 'im, and they talks of the Zwiss Vamily Robinson, but\n'tisn't true anyway; first 'cos 'e weren't alone in an island if there\nwas other folk with 'im, second 'cos he wasn't a Zwiss, or any sort o'\nthem vurriners, third because 'e 'adn't got no vamily, 'cept for 'is\nol' vamily at 'ome that is, as tried to stop'n runnin' away to sea, 'is\nol' father and 'is ol' mother--\"\n\n\"What did his father do?\"\n\n\"Didn't _du_ nort.\"\n\n\"I mean like Brother Briggs is an oilman and Brother Quaint keeps a\nbaker's shop--\"\n\n\"Oh I don't know thikky. 'Tis some 'undreds o' years agone since it all\nfirst 'appened, you knows. 'Owsomever--\" And so on: the whole imperial\ntale.\n\nWhen in later years I read the book for myself I found how accurately\nshe had stressed the salient points. The father of young Robinson,\nalways growlin' and scoldin' like some others she cude mention;\nthe young raskel himself with whom these methods were not entirely\ndisplaced; the flight to sea; the ship doing battle with Turks and\nPortugeeses and Vrenchies and Spanyerds; the wreck on the desert\nisland, young Robinson alone being saved; his infinite resource,\npractical, mechanical, architectural, culinary, dietetic; his ills,\nmoral and physical.--Every known pain of the body he suffered, finding\nsome slight alleviation, it is true, in the miniature Aunt Jaelian\nphysic-cupboard from the all providing Wreck. His worst affliction\nwas a malady--the Blues or Deliverums--at once moral and physical, a\nkind of soul's nightmare accompanied by sharp \"abdominable pains.\" All\naround him, as he writhed in agony, roared an islandful of wild beasts;\ntigers and jeraffs and hullyfints and camyels and drumming-dairies--\n\n\"What's that?\" I remember asking.\n\n\"Wull, either 'tis camyels wi' one 'ump to the back, or else 'tis\ncamyels what 'ave one 'ump and drummy-dairies two; 'tis one or\n'tother--and bears and munkeys and girt sarpints what they caal\nboy-constructors, I don't knaw fer why:--a regler munadgery like\nTobbery Vair--and birds too. The pore chap 'ad one particler parrit or\ncocky-two as they caals 'un, what 'e taught to 'oller out: 'Pore ol'\nRobinson Crewjoe! pore ol' Robinson Crewjoe!' 'Tis true what I tell\n'ee, my dear, 'tis true's I zit yer.\"\n\nNor did I doubt it. The notion of an invented story was one I could not\nhave conceived.\n\nThe narrative came particularly near home with the arrival of the\nsavages, and the domestication and conversion of Man Vriday--\"or Man\nZaturday maybe--I know 'tis one o' the days o' the wake.\" Robinson\nsaw that he could atone for his own unholy past by snatching this\nblack-skinned brand from the burning. I listened eagerly, with\nconscious professional interest; the snatching of black-skinned brands\nwas the very work for which the Lord had set me apart.\n\n\"And so he praiched the Gospel to 'im, and shewed 'im all the mercies\no' God A'mighty.\"\n\n\"But _could_ he, Mrs. Cheese? Was he a Saint, was he one of the Elect?\"\n\n\"I don't knaw fer certin'. Don't rekellect it ackshilly zaying 'pon the\nbuke that 'e was a Plymith Brethering in so many worrds as the sayin'\nis. A Methody maybe. But that's neither 'ere nor there.\"\n\n\"But it is, it's _very_ important,\" I cried, \"it's everything!\"\n\n\"'Owsomever, 'e taught this yer Man Vriday ter pray ter the Lord.\nThat's gude nuff. 'You goes down on yer knees, and you prays to Im,'\n'e zes. 'Why that's jis' what we do too,' zes Man Vriday, to _our_\nGod'--meanin' a girt idol set up on a hill in the other island 'e com'd\nfrom, zummat like the girt idol o' Miss Vickary's in the corner there\nin that ol' front-room uv 'ern. 'Us valls vlat on our vaces before un,'\n'e zes, 'and us 'owls out O-o-o-o Benamuckee! O-o-o-o Benamuckee!' that\nbein' the god's name, as yer mid say. Tis a fac', I'll ait vire an\nsmoke if tid'n.\"\n\n\"Did he convert him?\" anxiously.\n\n\"Zome zay 'e did, but I shudn' 'ardly think 'tis true, fer Man Vriday\nturns to ol' Robinson Crewjoe--'e was an ol' chap now, you knaws,\n'aving been there the bettermos' part o' thirty years--and 'e zes to\n'im, zes 'e, 'I don't zee much odds to't, master. You prays to your God\nup i' the sky, and you zes 'O God' and we prays to our god up i' the\nmountain, and we zes 'O Benamuckee.' He'm a great god too, a mighty\ngreat god like yourn; I don't zee much odds to't, master,' 'e zes. So\nif 'e did convert 'im, it was a middlin' stiff job, I reck'n. And I\nain't afraid ter zay that ol' Robinson was a middlin' big fule ter try.\nIf a vorrin savage is so big a fule as to lay down flat on 'is stummick\nand 'oller out 'O-o-o-o Benamuckee' and sich like jibberish, 'e's a\nbigger fule still as tries to make 'im mend 'is ways. Missyunaries\ncan't du much gude wi' such fules as they--\"\n\nBlasphemy supreme. The listener behind the door could restrain herself\nno longer. Aunt Jael stumped in.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Wull?\" said the _raconteuse_, bold and unabashed. She had the\nmorning's score to settle.\n\n\"Well? Well this: '_ee_ talked about notice this morning, madam. Now I\ngive 'ee notice.\"\n\n\"Du yer, Miss Vickary, du yer? Wull, I don't take it then. I'm Missis\nLee's servant as much as I'm yourn. You only pays 'alf my money, tho'\nyou may du six-vivths o' the mistressin'. An' 'tis no lies I've been\ntellin'; 'tis all true gauspel--\"\n\n\"Order!\" stamped the thorned stick. \"'Ee leave a week to-day. Silence!\"\n(For repartee was ready.) \"And for you, Child, there's no excuse. None.\nYou knew. You knew your sin sitting listening all through that pack of\nlies--\"\n\n\"'Tiz _not_ lies!\" cried Mrs. Cheese. \"'Tis true's I stand yer,\" for\nshe had risen to face the adversary. \"Can't the poor lil chil' listen\nto a trew story? Thank the Lawr there aren't many little children in\nTobbry cooped up like 'er is, as can't move her lil finger wi'out\ngettin' cussed and banged; I ain't got no patience wi't, and there's\nplenty uv other volks as I cude mention as 'ave passed a few remarks\ntoo--\"\n\n\"Silence!\" shouted Aunt Jael, furiously stamping the stone floor\ntwo-to-the-second with her stick.\n\nIn came my Grandmother, drawn by the tumult. At once both Aunt Jael and\nMrs. Cheese began defending themselves: the first word with neutrals\ncounts for much. To Mrs. Cheese: \"Miss Vickary first\"; to Aunt Jael:\n\"Speak, sister.\"\n\n\"I've caught her telling the child a long lying rigmarole about savages\nand idolatry--\"\n\n\"'Tis not lies! 'Tis truth!\" blazed the other, \"and don't yer let the\npore chil' be punished for listenin', Missis Lee.\"\n\nGrandmother apportioned blame: for me \"You knew you ought not to have\nlistened\"; for Mrs. Cheese \"Be more careful in what you talk about, and\ndon't forget your manners with Miss Vickary\"; for Aunt Jael \"There's\nnot much harm been done, Sister; no need whatever to carry on so.\"\n\nAunt Jael was infuriated. The balance of Grandmother's judgment was\nobviously against her; the fact that her younger sister was judging at\nall was against the first principles of the household, a slight to her\nposition--and to all those sixty-nine years' of an eighteen-months'\nseniority.\n\n\"There!\" looked Mrs. Cheese and I, and though neither of us smiled\nnor spoke, Victory sang in our eyes. My triumph was short. She struck\nme with her clenched fist; my shoulder received all she owed to Mrs.\nCheese and Grandmother as well. So brutal and unexpected was the blow\nthat it stirred me to a spontaneous and venomous cry: \"Ugh, I _hate_\nyou.\"\n\nFear and forethought which shrouded and bowdlerized most of my remarks\nwhen angry had no time to give me pause. \"I hate you!\" I repeated\nsavagely.\n\nSilence, Sensation, Crisis. Who would resolve it? How?\n\nGrandmother spoke first: \"Hush, child, hush. Your Aunt is angry, but\nyou are beside yourself. Jael, I'm ashamed; to strike like that! But\n'hate,' child: the Devil speaks in you. Think, do you mean it?\"\n\n\"Not quite, no, not--not so bad as that,\" I faltered convincingly, not\nfrom contrition, but to ward off, if might be, another blow, which in\nthe logic of things lay near ahead.\n\n\"H'm. 'Tis as well as not. It all comes to this, young minx: You're bad\nall through; the Devil's in 'ee all the time. Your Grandmother and I\nhave always forbidden 'ee tales of fairies and such like. 'Ee knew, and\n'ee listened. Were 'ee wrong--or were 'ee not? I correct 'ee, and all I\nget for years of care is that 'ee spit out hate. Are 'ee sinful--or are\n'ee not?\"\n\nI looked at Grandmother: I must take care not to alienate supporters. I\nlooked at Aunt Jael: that blow must be exorcised. \"Yes.\"\n\nShe thirsted for super-victory. \"Repeat: 'Yes, Aunt Jael, I was sinful\nand wrong.'\"\n\n\"Yes, Aunt Jael, I was sinful and wrong.\"\n\n\"And so when I reproved 'ee for being wrong and gave 'ee a well\ndeserved blow, I was right?\"\n\nNo reply. Her brow darkened. Blow nearer again.\n\n\"Come now, quick about it: 'ee were wrong?\"\n\n\"Yes, Aunt Jael.\"\n\n\"And I was right.\"\n\nNo reply. She half raised her stick--not fist this time--but noting\nGrandmother's eye, restrained herself with an effort. Both belligerents\nplayed still for neutral sympathy. She must be moderate, as Salvation\nsaid of her scholastic fees.\n\n\"Now, child, I'll give 'ee five minutes. If by that time 'ee haven't\nlooked me in the face and repeated twice ''Ee were right, Aunt Jael,\nand I'm very sorry,' then I'll bang 'ee till 'ee won't be able to sit\ndown. Now then.\"\n\nShe leaned against the table, eyeing the clock. Mrs. Cheese sat silent,\nbut ready I could see for intervention. That was Grandmother's look\ntoo. Both were ready to ward off the soon-to-be-uplifted stick. Aunt\nJael feared this, and was uneasy. She broke the silence after about two\nminutes.\n\n\"I warn 'ee. For your own good, mark. 'Tis no odds to me: I'd as lief\nthrash you. Don't 'ee know your Proverbs, child: 'Chasten thy son while\nthere is hope, and let not thy rod spare for his crying.' _I'll_ not\nspare for your crying. And 'ee'll be free from me for a spell, for\n'ee'll dwell up in the attic for a few days all alone to give 'ee time\nto think over your sins. Now then. What d'ye say to that?\"\n\n\"What do I say?\" I shouted. \"I say this: '_It is better to dwell in a\ncorner of the housetop than with a brawling woman in a wide house!_'\nDon't 'ee know your Proverbs, Aunt Jael?\"\n\nThe supreme defiance of my childhood; the aptest quotation of my life.\nNever before nor after was I so great. There was no hope now, the\nbeating would equal my deserts, and I had doubtless alienated my best\nally. Even so, there mingled with my fear delight in my retort-perfect.\nIt was worth living to have said that; I must be brave and show that it\nwas worth dying for.\n\nFor a moment my boldness had staggered her; for a moment only. Then\nshe brought down the great stick with a crash on my shoulder that sent\nme reeling against the dresser. Grandmother snatched at the stick; she\nflung her roughly aside, and sent her tottering against the flour-bin\nwith a savage shove.\n\n\"How dare you? How dare you knock my Grandmother about? You bad, cruel\nold woman!\"\n\n\"There's perlice in this town, Miss Vick'ry, you'm forgetting.\"\n\n\"Jael!\"\n\nFor answer to the three of us, she struck me brutally twice, once on\nthe leg, and once on my ear, which began to bleed. The two others made\na joint rush for the stick.\n\n\"Jael, you're beside yourself.\"\n\n\"'Old 'ard, ol' biddy.\"\n\nI had one idea: flight. There was a nightmare sort of struggle now in\nprogress, swaying first toward one side of the kitchen, then toward\nanother: three black-bodiced old ladies in a Rugby football scrum, Aunt\nJael and Mrs. Cheese, as far as one could see, scuffling for the stick,\nand Grandmother half-scuffling for the stick also, scuffling also to\nprevent the other two from scuffling each other to death: at once\nparticipant and peacemaker, and certainly not blessed. Past this black\nswaying mass I dashed, along the hall, hatless out on to the Lawn, and\non into the forbidden street outside the Lawn gates.\n\nI ran blindly; where, I did not know. It was a sultry day; my aches\nand bruises began to tell, and I had to slow down before my rage was\nworked away. I was wild and rebellious, not only against Aunt Jael, but\nagainst God Who allowed her to treat me so. I was walking slowly now.\nI looked about me; stared at a new brick building on the other side of\nthe road, crossed to read the notice-board outside. \"Roman Catholic\nChurch!\" Aunt Jael had spoken of this;--this monster we had weakly\nallowed to be erected in our midst, this Popish temple, this Satan's\nSynagogue.\n\n\"Go in!\" said Instinct. This was puzzling: the suggestion was clearly\nsinful, yet here it came with the authority of my trusted better self.\nWell, I would commit the sin, the sin deadlier than the seven, the sin\ncrying to heaven for vengeance, the sin against the Holy Ghost! No\nmodern mind could grasp the sense of supreme ultimate wickedness with\nwhich my deliberate contact with the Scarlet Woman filled me, for there\nis no live anti-Popery left among us today. As I pushed open the red\nbaize door, my heart beat fast. Here indeed was defiance to Aunt Jael\nand to God Who permitted her. I was making a personal call on the Devil\nin his own private residence. I should have been much less surprised\nthan frightened to find him inside the chapel, seated on a throne of\nfire; tail, hoofs and all. What should I find? I trembled with emotion.\n\nMy first impressions were of the darkness and the smell. This curious\nodour was doubtless the \"insects\" against which Miss Salvation\nthundered; that burnt-offering which cunningly combined cruelty\nwith idolatry. It was an interesting smell; I thought of the\npaint-and-Bibles odour of our Room. Much of the character of churches,\nas of books, is discovered in their smell: it is by my nose rather than\nmy mind that I can best recall the rich doctrinal differences between\nCalvinistic Methodists, and (say) Particular Baptists. You may smell\nout a Tipper--or a Bunker--or a Believer in the Divine Revelation of\nJoanna Southcote--with blindfold eyes; and the odour of an English\nRoman Catholic Church is, I think, the most distinctive of them all.\nSo too its darkness. How unlike the bare lightness of the Room. This\nPapistry reminded me of Aunt Jael's front parlour with its perpetual\nyellow darkness, its little heathen images and its great wooden god.\nEverywhere there were images and idols, though I was disappointed--and\nsurprised--not to see more sensational symbols of evil. I dared not\nbegin to _think_ so, though I _felt_ already that this mysterious place\ngave (somehow) pleasure.\n\n\"Habitation of devils and cage of every unclean and hateful bird\": our\nphrases did not fit here,--but perhaps I should soon behold a Sign.\nA young man came in and knelt before one of the idols: a mother and\nbaby-boy, the Mary Mother and the Son of God. I watched him on his\nknees before the graven image, Man Vriday on his knees before God\nBenamuckee. I had a wild notion of crying aloud; I would then and there\ntestify to the true God. But I could not--something held me back--the\nincense, the holiness, the young man's face, pale and kind and pure....\nI looked away. In the side aisle were two or three old women in prayer.\nHow like our old-lady Saints were these Papist women! However different\ntheir souls, how alike their clothes and faces! The one nearest me\nreminded me at once of my Grandmother. Kneeling with her eyes closed\nand her lips moving in prayer, she looked strangely like the dear\ndevout face I watched each night at bedside prayers. Said Reason: this\nis an old Papist sinner, a lost soul, an eldest beautiful daughter of\nAntichrist, who hath glorified herself and lived deliciously, whose\nsins have reached unto heaven, whose iniquities God hath remembered.\nSaid Instinct, which came from the Lord: \"She is good.\" (Perhaps she\nwas one of those two or three Papists who were going to heaven, as\nGrandmother said, despite all.) The kind old face, rapt, adoring,\nthe lips praying as my Grandmother prayed; the pale clean sorrowful\nyoung man too; above all, the rich sacramental stillness--these\nthings _of course_ were wrong. In the swifter more intuitive way I\nknew that they were right, and that _I_ was wrong. I was baffled; and\nfrightened. These impressions come back to me dimmed maybe, or rather,\nover-clarified by the notions of later years; but however vaguely and\nchildishly, they are what I surely felt. I had come into this place to\ncommit sin: I knew now that I was committing sin by having come here in\nsuch a spirit. I had known it was sacrilege to hold communion with the\nevil thing; now the sacrilege seemed to be in the mood in which I had\ncome here. For Papist temple or no, God was somewhere here. The dark\nincensed holiness of this unholy place was sapping my faith and will. I\nmust fly.\n\nAnd my revenge? I had forgotten that. I slunk out feebly, fleeing from\nthe church and fleeing too from new thoughts I dare not think. I ran to\nstop myself thinking.\n\nThere was no alternative but home. They must be wondering where I was,\nsearching perhaps. They would be anxious; Aunt Jael's conscience, I\nhoped, would be smiting her. It was already near dusk when I slipped\nthrough the Lawn gates. When I reached the door my fear grew again; but\nI was too tired to wander further. Beatings or no beatings, I would\ngo into Aunt Jael's own front room, curl myself up in the armchair;\nthe place was so strictly forbidden that she would never dream of\nsearching for me there. The key, as always, stood in the door; mean\nand purposeful temptation. It was not far from supper-time, and with\nthe blind drawn the room was pretty well dark. I lay back in the\narmchair and looked around me at the yellow darkness, at the great oak\ncupboard, the blanched plants in their row of saucers on the floor,\nthe walls covered with spears and clubs, the mantelpiece littered with\ngods. There straight ahead, high on his walnut whatnot, the great idol\nblinked down at me.\n\nHere, here was my revenge! The notion stormed me. Dare I? Dare I go\ndown on my knees and worship the graven image? 'Twas a fine way of\ngetting even: to kneel on the floor of her sacred room, and there\nperform that idolatry which was for her the nameless sin, through even\ntalking of which today's trouble had begun. It would be getting even\nwith God too. If He allowed cruelty and injustice to go on, if He let\nme be treated as I was, if He failed to deal fairly and faithfully\nbetween Aunt Jael and me, if He came short in His duty to Himself and\nmyself; then in my turn I would fail in my duty to Him, I would break\nHis commandments. From the second the notion came, I knew I should\nobey; though it puzzled me to hear what seemed to be the Tempter's\nvoice speaking for the second time today with the voice of God. To give\nthe Right every chance, and as a sop to fear, I would count a slow and\nimpartial thirty-seven. If at the end of my count the desire to sin was\nstill there, I should have no choice but to obey: the deed must have\nbeen predestined, foreordained. Slowly I counted, trying desperately\nnot to influence the decision, and keeping an even balance between\nwickedness and fear: ... thirty-five ... thirty-six ... thirty-seven.\nYes. The idol still leered invitation; worship him I must. Yet fear\nnumbed me as I sank on my knees; so I made this pitiful pretence, that\nI was only pretending to do it, not really performing idolatry, but\njust making believe that I was. (In a way this was true.)\n\nAloud I piped feebly in faint shameful voice: \"O-o-o-o Benamuckee,\"\nbut dare not face the idol yet. In my heart I screamed, \"O God, God,\nI'm not doing this _really_. Strike me not dead, show no vengeance,\nspare me, O Lord. 'Tis all make-believe, that I'm worshiping this idol.\nThou knowest it. Spare me, spare me!\" Every second I expected some\ndread sign, waited God's stroke. Surely it must come. Here was I--a\nChristian child, Saint of Saints, dedicated to preach the gospel to the\nheathen, who in their blindness bowed down to wood and stone--doing\nthe self-same thing, and with no blindness for an excuse. Jehovah\nwould bare His terrible right arm in one swift gesture of supreme\nrevenge--lightning, thunder-bolt, death--only let the stroke come\nquickly! I waited through a moment of abject fear. Nothing happened;\nnothing. Was God--? I dare not ask myself the question I dared not\nformulate.\n\nThe first moment passed. I grew less fearful. I grew bold. I felt\nconfident in the instinct that had prompted me, morbidly delighted with\nthe quality of my sin, mighty in its importance and in my own. I felt\nI was the central spot in the universe: all the worlds were standing\nstill to gaze upon my wickedness. God did nothing. He gave no sign. I\ntook courage; I abandoned all pretence that I was pretending, and flung\nmyself prostrate on the carpet.\n\n\"O-o-o-o-Benamuckee! O-o-o-o-Benamuckee!\" with all the fervour of true\nprayer.\n\nStill no sign. By now I was not afraid, but rather disappointed. Why\nhad the Omniscient and Omnipotent left me unpunished, unreproved,\nunscathed? Swiftly the answer rushed to my brain--I counted a desperate\nthirty-seven, but the notion stuck--He gave no heed because He so\nutterly despised me. He saw nothing in me but a miserable play-acting\nlittle worm, too mean even for punishment. It was true, and in the same\nmoment I despised myself. \"O-o-o-o\" died lamely on my lips. As I got up\nfrom my knees I dared not look around me for fear some one was watching\nmy folly and shame. Had anybody seen? And what harm had I done to Aunt\nJael, the source of all my misery, the real author of all my folly?\nNone. First by going into a house of idolatry, and now by performing it\nmyself, I was wreaking no hurt on her, while imperilling my own eternal\nsoul. I was a fool.\n\nThen came the day's third notion. Cupboard, cupboard!--rifle it! Open,\nlook, steal! This massive piece of oak excelled the physic cupboard in\nmystery, while equalling it in Aunt Jael's affections. Its contents\nwere largely unknown: I knew it housed a jar of ginger, and in\nbenignant mood Aunt Jael would make it yield a box of Smyrna figs, from\nwhich she doled me one or two for senna's sake--as dainty supplement or\nshy substitute. Like the door of the room itself, the door of the rich\ncupboard stood always key in lock. Once before I had reached this point\nof handling the key; today, the day of many sins, I took the one step\nfurther, and opened to my gaze a new world of jars, pots, boxes and\nbags. I opened my campaign on a jar of French plums, the jar massive\nstone and broad-necked, the plums large black and luscious. I had\neaten perhaps my sixth (one of my unlucky numbers), when--a sound--and\nI half dropped the jar in fright. The door, there was a noise at the\ndoor; the handle turned, it was opening. An opening door is the thief's\nnightmare; I dared not get up from my knees. The noise ceased; I\npeered through the darkness. Then the atoms of _seen_ atmosphere that\nsometimes fill a half-darkened room played me a cruel trick. They\nshaped into a great leering face--half Aunt Jael, half Benamuckee;--it\npeered round the door, it mocked, it sneered. I was petrified with\nfear, and for something to hold clutched fiercely at the stone jar. Was\nthe face real? Look, it was fading away. Then, without any manner of\ndoubt, the door softly shut. So the face was real, and I knew its owner.\n\nWhat new tortures would she find to meet the score I was running up?\nWhy had she withdrawn? Ah, she had gone for the ship's rope, was coming\nback to give me the last flogging of all, the one that would kill\nme. A few minutes passed. As in the Papist chapel, and again during\nmy idol-worship, I waited for a great something to happen. Nothing\nhappened. I attended a sign. No sign came.\n\nI must venture forth; sooner or later I had to face the music. I had no\nstomach left for plums. I put the jar back, locked the cupboard door,\nand stole softly out into the hall. Far away along the passage I could\nsee Mrs. Cheese bustling about in the kitchen; it must be supper-time.\nShe was still in the house therefore; she had ignored her notice and\nsurvived the _m\u00eal\u00e9e_ in which I had seen her last. I turned the key\nsoftly behind me, then stole to the house front-door, which I noisily\nopened and shut, to pretend I had just come in.\n\nI walked straight into the dining-room.\n\nAunt Jael _smiled_. I had foreseen many things, but not this. She said\nnothing. This proved that the face at the door was hers. A grim smile.\n\n\"At last!\" said my Grandmother. \"It was wrong to run away and scare us\nlike this. I'll talk to you afterwards upstairs. Have your supper now,\nas you've had no tea. Then to bed.\"\n\nI ate. Aunt Jael sat and smiled. A grim smile.\n\nUpstairs in my bedroom Grandmother asked me where I had been. \"I\nwalked about the town\" satisfied her. She rebuked my initial sin in\nencouraging Mrs. Cheese, my second in insulting Aunt Jael, my third\nin running away; she anointed my sores, first on the ear, second on\nthe calf, third on the shoulder where the first ruffianly stroke had\nfallen; she prayed with me, and said good-night.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAlone in bed I went over the day's events: from porridge pan to\nplums, from lumps to Aunt Jael's smile. Suddenly, causelessly in the\nway one finds in a dream lost objects whose hiding place is long\nforgotten--I saw the stone cover of the plum jar lying in the middle of\nthe front-room carpet. Remembrance followed vision, and I knew I had\nhastily put the jar away without it. At all events the cover must be\nrestored; if by any wild chance the face at the door had not been Aunt\nJael's this tell-tale object would anyhow give me away if she should\nfind it; if the face _were_ hers the cover would be fine \"evidence.\"\n\nI got up. I always lay awake till after midnight; Aunt Jael and\nGrandmother were long ago in bed. The day's horrible excitements had\nmade me more cowardly than usual. The darkness frightened me, the\ncreaking stairs frightened me, my conscience frightened me. Shapes\nloomed everywhere. The pillar at the foot of the banisters towered down\non me like some avenging ghost. At last I reached the front-room door;\nI turned the key slowly and carefully; it clanged unpiteously in the\nsilence. I peeped in. The moonlight piercing through the drawn blind\nlit up ghoulishly the god's evil face. I stared a moment; his features\n_moved_; and I fled in frantic terror.\n\nThough the object I sought was but a couple of yards away, I could not\nfor all the world have dared a single step nearer. I shut the door\nand, praying fervently all the way, crept up to bed again. I would go\nand pick up the cover of the jar first thing in the morning; Aunt Jael\nnever went in till after breakfast; the daylight I could dare.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII: THE END OF THE WORLD\n\n\nAll night I did not sleep. Conscience busy with the day past and fear\nanxious for the day ahead gave me quite enough to think about, and I\nwas feverish and overwrought. As soon after daylight as I dared I set\nforth downstairs. It was early enough for me to retrieve the tell-tale\nobject before Aunt Jael was astir and light enough for me to brave Lord\nBenamuckee. At the foot of the stairs I met Aunt Jael, fully dressed,\nnearly two hours before ordinary time; smiling.\n\n\"Good morning, child. You're up betimes.\"\n\nI did not dare a _tu quoque_, but uttered a feeble tale about helping\nMrs. Cheese to clean the boots, Friday being her busiest day.\n\nAunt Jael, by a singular coincidence, had risen in the same helping\nspirit, and the two of us burst upon the astonished Mrs. Cheese in\nthe midst of her first matutinal movements. Though I was by now quite\ncertain that the face at the door had been Aunt Jael's, this did not\nprevent my wishing to restore the jar-cover to its place. It was\npreparing for the best, so to speak, on the faint off-chance that I\nwas deluded. Meanwhile her smile prepared me for the worst. It was\nmore complex than a blow, for it portended blows to come and added to\ntheir evil charm by heralding them afar off. Aunt Jael's floggings had\nat least this merit, that as a rule they came suddenly; the stick was\nacross my back before I knew where I was.\n\nI walked out of the kitchen, straight through to the front room door.\nBefore touching the handle, I took a glance down the length of the\nhall. Yes, there she stood at the kitchen door, watching me like a\nhawk. At breakfast, hope pointed out one more chance. I would gobble\ndown my food, and essay a dash for my objective just as I was leaving\nfor school. I ate as fast as I could; she at once ate faster. I got\nup, she got up too. There was no chance, and she even saw me to the\nhouse-door as I set out for school. In the game we were playing, no\nword was spoken. Her weapon was her smile, which was the proof too that\nshe was winning.\n\nOn my way to school, as I thought now of this latest menace, now of\nyesterday's deeds, I admitted that here at last was a case when I\n_deserved_ punishment. \"I hate you\"--entering a House of Sin, and\napproving it almost--breach of the third commandment--common theft--a\nwhite lie to Grandmother as to where I had been--what an awful record\nfor one day! Truly I was a queen of sinners. Perhaps God saw fit to\nhumble me in the exaltation of my sin by scorning direct vengeance\nHimself (three times I had waited for the sign), and had chosen as the\nvehicle of His vengeance Aunt Jael, my every-day inglamorous tyrant. In\nany case vengeance was certain; the sultry thunder-weather of the new\nday seemed to announce it.\n\nSoon after I got to school, it began to grow dark, then very dark. It\nwas one of those rare occasions when the pitch-black of utter darkness\nfalls in the day-time; I only remember one other in nearly fifty years.\nMiss Glory wondered; Miss Salvation exclaimed; we children cowered. I\nalone had an inkling of what the portent really betokened. It was the\nSign. Now that I felt certain once again that the moment of my doom was\nat hand, all the exquisite extreme fear of yesterday came back.\n\nIt was swiftly too dark to read. Panic set in. All the children, from\nboth classes, clustered round Glory. She, not Salvation, was the refuge\nand strength which instinct pointed out on this Last Day. The situation\nwas worthy of her prophet's soul: to her was assigned the awful honour\nof ushering in Eternity, and announcing the sure signs of the beginning\nof the end. She stood up, gaunt, prophetic, towering far above the\nchildren who clustered round her, waved one hand towards the heavens,\nand chanted forth:\n\n\"The End, little children, is here! Fear not! Repent! 'And the fourth\nangel sounded and the third part o' the sun was smitten, and the third\npart o' the moon and the third part o' the stars; so as the third part\no' them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part uv it, and\nthe night likewise.' The End is here! The bottomless pit is opened,\nthen cometh forth smoke out o' the pit, and the sun and the air are\ndarkened. Out o' the smoke come great locusts upon the earth, great\nlocusts--\" Some of the children shrieked.\n\nNow at one stride came utter darkness. Salvation fell on her knees in\na corner apart, yelling and howling to the Lord to save her. \"O Lord,\nLord, remember us as is chosen, remember, Lord. Smite the ungodly,\nLord, smite 'em all, but spare the righteous, spare the righteous!\nStrike the goats with thy angur, but zave the pore sheep; smite the\nzinners, but zave Thy own Zaints! Oh, aw, ow! Zave, Lord, zave!\"\n\nWhile this pitiable object yelled away, and the children cried, Miss\nGlory's solemn voice chanted on, awaiting God's stroke. I the Papist,\nthe idolater, the liar, the thief--this visitation was for _me_. And if\nit was the end of the whole world too, as I believed, I was the cause,\nand I should be the first victim.\n\n\"Plagues, locusts, scorpions, the pit, the great tribulation! Life is\ndeath, me children: _'tis one long prercession o' death beds_. Listen,\nhearken. First the darkness, now 'tis the thunders and lightin's that\nis at hand. Watch, oh, my children, watch; pray and fear not. 'Tis the\nend o' the Worrld, I tell 'ee, the end o' the Worrld.\" And all the\nchildren clutched at her in a frightened desperate ring, so that they\nshould all go to heaven or hell together. I could just distinguish the\ngroup a few feet away; it looked in the darkness like a swarm of giant\ninsects. Miss Salvation was pleading and howling away for a heaven to\nherself, and hell for all folk else. Still I waited; the slowness of\nGod's stroke was half its terror. It was too hard to bear.\n\nThen, far more suddenly than it came, the darkness lifted. With\nreturning light came confidence. I breathed freely. Once again respite.\nFear, prime instigator of goodness, lost his hold as the shadows faded.\nI began to _expect_ escape; to think, after so many favours, that I was\nprivileged, and could take the risk of wrongdoing. I was a chartered\nlibertine.\n\nWhen I got back to Bear Lawn before dinner, no sign of Aunt Jael. There\nwas still a chance then to put things right if it was not too late. I\nstole into the front room. There, in the middle of the floor, just as\nI had seemed to see it in bed, lay the stone jar-cover. Good fortune\nonce again. After all Aunt Jael could know nothing. Those smiles were\ninnocent; their menace must have been born of my disordered mind.\nAnyway, here was yet another stroke of luck. But, alas, these perpetual\nescapes emboldened me. Fear is the guardian of virtue, safety the\nguide to sin. God's repeated forgivenesses for my sins inspired in me\nsecurity rather than gratitude: a feeling that I could sin safely.\n\nSo why not another French plum? Only just one,--or two. Before fixing\nthe cover on the jar, it was natural enough just to taste. I knelt down\nto open the cupboard. I tilted the heavy jar to look down into it and\nmake my choice. In a second I dropped it with a wild frenzied shriek,\nwrung from the depths of my heart. Staring at me from inside the jar,\npainted there in great letters of shining fire, lay the Sign:\n\n\n    THOU GOD SEEST ME.\n\n\nThe King of Terrors had got hold of me, and I shrieked and shrieked\nagain. I writhed on the floor like a wild thing, clasping now my side,\nnow my knees and again my forehead in all the pitiful gestures of\nterror. I cut my hand against the broken fragments of the jar that\nlay scattered on the floor. I licked at the blood. Now the air seemed\nfilled with those awful letters, in blood-red capitals everywhere.\nI shut my eyes: against the blackness the letters stood forth more\nbright and terrible than ever: THOU GOD SEEST ME. He saw, the Almighty\nsaw. God had given me rope and I had hanged myself. It had needed this\nmiracle to bring me to a sense of my sins: this Sign whereby the Lord\nGod wrote with His own finger in letters of fire in the plum-jar; the\nearthen vessel of my sin. This was but the beginning of terrors. \"Tis\nthe End o' the World, I tell 'ee, the End o' the World,\" rang my brain.\nI waited the next sign: a stealthy sound--the door, the door!--then\nagain that face, leering, mocking, horrible. It was Aunt Jael--no, it\nwas Benamuckee--it changed again, it was the Devil himself! I fainted\naway.\n\nIn the \"mental illness\" that followed I came near to losing my life\nand nearer still to losing my reason. For many days I was unconscious,\nand then for long weeks I lay in bed under my Grandmother's loving\ncare. In my delirium I must have told her everything. Sometimes I can\nrecall that fevered time; it comes back to me in the swift evanescent\nway that one remembers a dream long afterwards, and it is one long\nhideous nightmare. I live again those dark delirious days when I knew\nmyself for a lost soul flying in terror from God, the Devil, the Pope,\nAunt Jael, Benamuckee and Eternity, who menaced me in turn with their\nvarious and particular terrors, in all the formless frightfulness of\ndreams. The pursuit was everlasting. An evil black shadow prowled\nclose at my heels with pitiless, unbroken stride. The face, which\nkept forcing me against my will to turn round to look at it as I ran,\nchanged from time to time. First I thought my pursuer was Aunt Jael,\nbrandishing a huge stick studded with thorns and spikes of inhuman\nsize. As I looked, hate of the coarse old face rose within me: then\nthe face changed, I thought, into God's; stern, just and terrible,\nseeking me out to stifle the wicked hate in my heart. Now again it was\nthe Pope, horned and horrible, seeking to avenge my sacrilege in his\ntemple, and now Benamuckee, hastening to devour me for having repented\nof my idolatry and deserted his shrine. I ran, it seemed, for ever. I\nhad no strength left, and fear alone worked my weary limbs. Now the\nface was formless: a black shapeless mass without limbs or features\nwas pursuing me. He was the grimmest of them all, and followed for\never and ever. I knew the formless face; it was the last worst terror,\nEternity Himself! Sometimes, as my Grandmother told me long afterwards,\nI shrieked in my delirium till my voice failed me and I could shriek no\nmore.\n\nPerhaps it was at such moments that the dream changed. I thought that\nI was God, with all the labour and responsibility of creation upon\nmy soul. Every clod of earth that went to make the world I had to go\nand fetch from some far-away corner in utmost Space; I staggered with\nthem, in it seemed a million journeys, to the central place where with\ninfinite labour I had to piece them all together one by one. When I\ncame to making the first man, my conscience--God's conscience--smote\nme: \"Think and ponder well: if you fashion but one man, it is you who\nmust bear the guilt for all the awful sorrows and wretchedness of the\nmillions of men who will come after, it is you who will be responsible\nfor all the agony of eternal life you are conferring upon a new race.\"\nI shut my ears to the voice (Who is God's conscience?--the Devil?),\nhardened my heart, and created mankind. Then as I beheld his fall, and\nall the unhurrying centuries of woe and pain and cruelty and sorrow\nthat followed, and knew that every one of those creatures I had called\nforth was damned into everlastingness without hope of happiness or\ndeath; suddenly on me too, on me the Lord God, there fell the terror\nof the Everlasting. All the fear I knew so well as Mary Lee was now a\nhundred times intensified when I was God. I too, the Almighty, was a\nvictim on the wheel of Space and Time; and as my brain pictured the\nawful horrible loneliness that would face me for ever watching the\nbirth and death of all the stars and half-a-million worlds, and knowing\nthere was no escape, I made a wild despairing attempt to fling myself\nheadlong over the edge of Space and commit soul-murder if I could. I\nflung myself over what seemed to be the margin of the universe; I was\nfalling, falling--then arms restored me;--and Grandmother saved me just\nin time, and put poor delirious brain-sick little God back into bed.\n\nI was in bed for many weeks; it was three or four months before I went\nback to school. The permanent effect of my illness was an increased\nnervousness I have never shaken off. To this day, whenever a door opens\nsuddenly without warning, my heart stands still, and try as I may not\nto see it, the vision of a cruel mocking face comes back. The most\nimmediate effect was that I became a \"better\" child. My Grandmother's\ndaily gentleness and sacrifice during those long long days, made me\nresolve to be more like her; and I prayed God fervently to make me so.\nI saw too, for all Aunt Jael's provocations and harsh treatment, that I\nhad been wrong and wicked. I numbered my sins one by one and repented\nof each and all. A miracle had been wrought to save me: the finger of\nthe Almighty had sketched in letters of flame the reminder that _HE\nSAW ME_. He had intervened miraculously and directly, to secure my\nspiritual state. I determined to be worthy of this signal proof of\nGod's special favour. By a sacrifice not easy to exaggerate I managed\nto see that Aunt Jael might have been God's \"instrument\" throughout:\nperhaps the idea was more possible since now, during my recovery, she\ntreated me far better than at any time before: kept a sharp hold on her\ntongue, indulged in no recriminations or abuse, and bought me a bottle\nof barley-sugar. I saw nothing more of that curious mocking smile that\nhad helped to haunt me into delirium. Once or twice I thought she had\na guilty look, especially once when Grandmother made some reference to\nthe plum-jar. Was it possible? Never. For if so, _how_? No; it was the\nLord's doing.\n\nMrs. Cheese had left. I gathered from Grandmother that there had\nbeen a stormy scene, Mrs. Cheese accusing Aunt Jael of directly and\ndeliberately causing my illness, and Aunt Jael ordering Mrs. Cheese out\nof the house then and there. She refused to go till she had helped my\nGrandmother to see me through the worst days.\n\nIn the stead of Mrs. Cheese arose a dim unapostolic succession of\nfickle and fleeting bondswomen. Most of them were Saints. All of\nthem quarrelled with Aunt Jael. Their average sojourn with us was\nperhaps ten months, which in those stable and old-fashioned days would\nequal (say) two weeks in this era of quick-change kitchen-maids and\nkaleidoscopic cooks.\n\nThere was Prudence, rightly so-called, for although she skimmed each\nmorning the milk the dairyman had left overnight, she cautiously\nconcealed her jugful of cream in the remotest corner of the least-used\nscullery cupboard. Aunt Jael, however, was on the watch. She thought\nthe milk woefully thin, and Prudence's explanations still thinner. Then\none morning she found the prudent one busy at early dawn, spoon in\nhand, her little jug half-full; caught in the very act.\n\nThere were Charlotte, Annie, Miriam, Ethel, May, Jane, Sarah, Bessie,\nAnn, Mary, the Elizas (two), Kate, Keturah, Deborah, Selina, and Sukie:\nI am not sure of their strict order of precedence. Nor do I remember\ntheir life with us half so well as the manner of their leaving it.\nThe climax came variously. Charlotte told me what I now know to have\nbeen dirty stories. Annie told Aunt Jael herself a very dirty story\nindeed--precisely what she thought of her (Aunt Jael); Miriam spat in\nher (Aunt Jael's) porridge, Kate when attacked with a shovel hit back\nwith a floury rolling-pin, Bessie stole a shilling, Ann (Anglican)\ngiggled during prayers, Jane--or may be this was Sarah--brought unsaved\n\"followers\" into the house, Selina did no work; one of the Elizas\nswore and the other was a Baptist. May and Keturah were fetched away\nby indignant parents. Deborah disappeared. One only died a natural\ndeath--Mary, my namesake, who left us to get married.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII: SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH\n\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miss Glory shaking her head gravely one Tuesday afternoon.\n\"I fear 'tis true. Satan hisself is coming to this town.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Aunt Jael, \"I should have thought he was here already.\"\n\n\"The ole Devil hisself,\" continued Glory, staring far into space and\nignoring Aunt Jael.\n\n\"Now what do you think you mean?\" snapped my Great-Aunt.\n\n\"She means the ole Devil hisself, which is what she said,\" interposed\nSalvation, hoping to raise ill feeling.\n\n\"Peace, sister! All I means is this 'ere. God A'mighty meant us to\ntravel on our two legs or by the four legs of four-footed beasts. 'Tis\nonly the Devil as can want to go any other way. We know 'ausses, an'\ndonkeys, and mules too for the matter o' that, but when it comes to\ncarriages and truck loads o' folk being pulled along as quick as a\nflash of lightning by an ole artifishul animal belchin' up steam and\nfire, like the n'orrible pit it is, 'tis some'at a thought too queer\nfor an ole Christian woman like myself and for God A'mighty too I\nshould think. No wonder there are orwis actsodents--act o' God, _I_\ncalls 'un. I've heard tell of these 'ere railway trains in vorrin\nparts, but I never did think we should see 'un in North Devun. But 'tis\ntrue I fear; Salvation went across the bridge to see with 'er own two\neyes, and saw a pair o' lines as the wicked thing runs along on, and\nbills and notices all braggin' about it. There didn't used to be no\nsich things, and there didn't ought to be now; 'tis all the Devil's\nworks and there'll be a judgment on them as 'elps 'em, a swift an'\nn'orrible judgment, you mark my words.\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" cried my Aunt. \"'Ee may both like to know that\nI sold that field o' mine, down beyond the meadow, to this railway\ncompany. There! Got a middling good price for it too, as all the\nMeeting will soon learn from yer two wagging tongues. Judgment indeed!\nPoor ignorant old fool. 'Tis a sensible invention, and the Lord permits\nit. Be you daft? 'Ee just show me a scripture that's against railway\ntrains!\"\n\n\"An' 'ee just show me one that's _for_ 'un!\" cried Salvation.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Jael,\" said Glory, ignoring her sister as always, \"but I\nassure 'ee I didn't know when I spake they solemn words. 'Tis a very\nseldom thing for me to speak out, but I feels deep. Even if 'tissen the\nspirit of Satan that's moving in these 'ere railway trains, what's the\n_good_ of 'un anyway? Will the worrld be any happier, will there be a\nsingle sinner the more as repenteth? Will there be less poor folk in\nthe worrld and less souls going to 'Ell? You wake up in a hundred years\nand see if these 'ere railway trains 'ave brought the kingdom 'o God on\nearth! There's no two ways about it, the worrld is getting wickeder,\nand these new invenshuns a sign. Things bain't what they used to be,\nand they'm gettin' worse.\"\n\n\"That field, Sister Jael,\" added Salvation, with gleaming teeth, \"that\nfield you sold was a field of blood. Alcedama! There'll be a judgment,\na n'orrible judgment, you mark my words.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA few weeks later Aunt Jael heaped coals of fire by asking the Sisters\nto accompany us to the official ceremony of the Devil's arrival in\nTawborough. All, I suppose, who had sold land to the Company were\ninvited to this function. Aunt Jael had a white ticket giving right\nof admission to the uncovered platform at which the Devil would draw\nup--\"the Company's railway station\" as the ticket grandly called it. It\nwas a preliminary trip from Crediton to Tawborough, before the general\nopening for traffic: a kind of dress rehearsal.\n\nThe day, July 12th, 1854, stands clear in my memory. It was the chief\npurely secular event of my childhood, the only time before I was a\ngrown woman that I went to any assembling together of people other than\nthe Lord's. I marvelled to see how numerous they were, and I remember\nthe dim suspicion that haunted me throughout the day, and never\ncompletely left me afterwards, that perhaps, despite Brother Brawn, not\nquite _all_ of them were being 'urld to 'Ell. They did not seem aware\nof it, and the moments when I did not doubt their fate were filled with\npity.\n\nThe day was to be treated as a holiday. Glory was persuaded by Aunt\nJael to announce that there would be no school. I was up betimes,\nwakened by the bells of the parish church, which rang a merry peal,\nand by the firing of guns. It was one of those fresh glorious summer\nmornings which promise delight, and do not leave the memory. Soon\nafter breakfast the Clinkers arrived in a carriage. Glory with brand\nnew bacon-rind strings to her bonnet, Salvation ominously cheerful,\nconfident of some awful disaster. Grandmother, Aunt Jael and I were\nready waiting, and the five of us drove to the scene of action. I felt\nelated and important, perched up on the box, as we drove slowly along\nstreets thronged with crowds in their Sunday best. Every one appeared\nin high spirits; I conjectured that those who shared Miss Glory's\ngloomy views must all have stayed at home. The crowds became denser as\nwe approached the railway station, a kind of long wooden platform with\na high covering. It looked like a very odd top-heavy sort of shed. A\nfew feet below the platform and close beside it ran two parallel metal\nlines on which the Thing would arrive. A high triumphal arch covered\nwith green-stuff and laurel leaves and bedecked with flags, the first\nI had ever seen, English, French and Turkish (\"Our Allies\": There was\na war, said some one), spanned the line. The platform was crowded with\npeople, and very gay and worldly they looked. Our little company of\nSaints tried to cling together, and I held tight to my Grandmother's\nhand, but the crowd was too close all round for us to look as separate\nas we tried to feel. Quite near was a body of gentlemen dressed in\nermine and rich surprising costumes and furs and wigs and cocked\nhats, and holding mysterious gold and silver weapons. Some, said my\nGrandmother, were the Mayor and Corporation, others were Oddfellows and\nFreemasons. I had not the least idea what these words might mean, and\nwas too busy staring to ask which were which. My heart was filled with\nenvy of those portly gentlemen and their gorgeous robes; a hankering\nenvy as real as any sentiment I have ever felt.\n\nAs the time of arrival drew near the excitement and jostling on the\nplatform increased. One lady fainted; \"A jidgment,\" commented Miss\nSalvation.\n\nI overheard some saying the train would never arrive, others that It\nwould be hours or even days late; others again that It would arrive to\ntime and confound all doubters. Excitement rose to a pitch of frenzy\nwhen two galloping horsemen drew up at the platform and announced that\nwithin five minutes It would be here. Only half of It however would\narrive, as the back portion had somehow got detached and left behind\nat Umberleigh: \"The Devil losing his tail,\" said Miss Salvation. When\nabout two minutes later a tall gentleman near us shouted excitedly that\nhe sighted It afar off, there was such a tiptoeing and straining and\nsquashing and peering that I could have cried with vexation at being so\nsmall. My Grandmother lifted me for a moment, and I had a perfect view\nof the monstrous beast as it drew near. The first carriage was belching\nfire and smoke from a funnel--just as Glory had said--and the carriages\nbehind it, brown scaly looking things, were like the links in a\nhell-dragon's tail. The fear seized me for a swift moment that perhaps\nafter all she was right. Then the people broke into deafening cheers\nand hurrahs, and waved handkerchiefs and funny little flags. Aunt\nJael and Grandmother stood impassive, but excited a little in spite\nof themselves. Glory and Salvation set their mouths, and determined\nto hold out. As the great engine puffed past us I was trembling with\nexcitement. It was the purest magic.\n\nWhen the Thing stopped we were about in the middle of its length,\nopposite the second carriage, or link of the tail. We were all pressed\nback to make room for the great people who were emerging. The majority\nwere gentlemen, a few grandly and mysteriously dressed like ours, more\nCorporations and Oddfellows and Freemasons I supposed, but most of\nthem, including some very angry-looking gentlemen, whispered to be His\nWorship the Mayor of Exeter and the Aldermen of that ancient city, in\nplain clothes. Alas, all their toggery had been left behind in the\nback half of the train which had been shed at Umberleigh.\n\nA very stylish gentleman dressed in black came forward in front of\neverybody else: Chairman of the Company, I heard whispered--whatever\nthat might mean. He shook hands with several of our dressed-up\ngentlemen, and then one of the latter, a fat man with a wig and white\ncurls, read to the stylish gentleman from a long roll of paper a very\nlong and very dry speech congratulating him on bringing the railway\ntrain to Tawborough and describing his person in very flattering\nterms. The stylish gentleman made a speech (without roll of paper) in\nresponse; it was much shorter, but about as dry.\n\nThen some of the dressed-up members of our side came forward in a body\nand poured out corn and oil and wine, very solemnly. When the wine had\nbeen spilled, a solemn man dressed like a high priest (the Provincial\nGrand Chaplain of the Order of Freemasons, I discover forty years later\nfrom the files of a local paper) lifted up his hands and prayed over\nthe Oblation. So people who were not Saints prayed!\n\nThe next thing I remember was our dressed-up people and the visitors\nmoving off the platform to form themselves into a procession to march\nround the town, and all the rest of us repairing to witness it. In the\nstampede that ensued Aunt Jael tripped over a beam that was lying on\nthe platform, and went flying.\n\n\"A jidgment,\" began Salvation, triumphant at last; when she tripped on\nthe beam and went flying too--which _was_ a \"jidgment.\"\n\nWe were only just in time to get a good view of the procession, as it\ntook Aunt Jael and Miss Salvation some time to limp along. All the\nMayors and Oddfellows and Corporations and Freemasons were there,\ncarrying symbols and rods and devices; there were soldiers, Mounted\nRifles and officers gay with swords; shipwrights in white trousers, and\nclergymen in black; uninteresting looking people in ordinary clothes\nwho had no more right to be there, I thought, than I had; and at\nleast four bands of music. The glamour of martial music and brilliant\ncostumes raised me to a pitch of ecstasy and envy; from that moment\nblare and pomp filled a great place in my hankerings and hopes.\n\nAfter the procession we took a walk round the streets, which were\ncrowded with people from all North Devon. There were flags at nearly\nevery window. A great triumphal arch was erected in the middle of the\nbridge inscribed \"Success to the North Devon Railway.\" The High Street\nwas one series of festoons, from upper storey windows of one side to\nupper storey windows of the other. One said \"God Save the Queen,\"\nanother \"Prosperity to our Town,\" and another which puzzled me a good\ndeal, hanging from the windows of what I now know to have been the\nlocal newspaper office, declared in huge red bunting capitals\n\n\n              THE PRESS,\n    THE RAILROAD OF CIVILIZATION.\n\n\nWe got home to dinner tired and excited. Glory and Salvation left\nto attend a Tea in the North Walk given by the tradespeople to six\nhundred poor people, amongst whom the Clinkers had hastened to number\nthemselves.\n\n\"It may be the Lord's way after all,\" said Miss Glory. \"God moves in a\nmysterious way.\"\n\nAunt Jael and Grandmother had been asked to take tickets (not gratis)\nto a great banquet in the Corn Market, but whether for economy's or\ngodliness' sake, decided not to go. I gather from the old local paper\nbefore me that they did not miss much; for despite the giant \"railway\ncake,\" a wonderful affair covered with viaducts and trains and bridges\nall made of icing sugar, and despite the vicar who ably \"performed the\ndevotions of the table,\" the dinner is candidly described as \"poor\" and\nthe caterer roundly trounced for her failure.\n\n\nSoon the railway passed into the realm of ordinary accepted things.\nThe Meeting was at first a little exercised about its attitude. A few,\nincluding Brother Brawn, agreed with Glory and Salvation that it was\nthe Devil's works. The majority, including my Grandmother, took the\npious and common-sense view that since the Lord permitted the thing it\nmust be His Will, and prayed that he would bless and sanctify it to His\nown use and glory.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX: AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON\n\n\nAugust the First, 1855, was the seventieth birthday of Aunt Jael.\n\nMoreover, as the Old Maids of Tawborough were seven, six other ladies\ncompleted their seventieth year on this self-same day, to wit: Miss\nSarah Tombstone, Miss Keturah Crabb, Miss Lucy Clarke, Miss Fanny\nBaker, with the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker. When Aunt Jael\ndecided on the astonishing plan of a great dinner party to celebrate\nthe day, by the very nature of things the Other Six figured at the head\nof her list of prospective guests.\n\nWho else should be invited? This question was lengthily discussed with\nGrandmother, discussed of course in Aunt Jael's way; i. e. she decreed,\nGrandmother agreed. The party was to be a representative one, with a\nworldly element and a spiritual element, a rich element and a poor\nelement, a this-world element and a next-world element. There were four\nmain divisions: first, the Other Six; second The Saints (selected);\nthird, old friends; and fourth--a grudging fourth--relations.\n\nOf the Saints, Aunt Jael invited Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, the Lord's\ninstrument for her own spiritual regeneration forty years before;\nBrother Brawn and Brother and Mrs. Quappleworthy; and Brother Quick,\nhe who had once proposed to young Jael Vickary, then the Belle of\nTawborough--though Grandmother always averred that his shot at Aunt\nJael was at best a ricochet.\n\nAfter much discussion and more prayer, the Lord guided Aunt Jael's mind\nto but one solitary Old Friend; a Mr. Royle, churchwarden at the Parish\nChurch, the only friend dating from Jael Vickary's young unsaved days\nwith whom she had kept up, if indeed decorous chats in the market when\nthey chanced to meet might be so considered; for he never came to the\nhouse.\n\nRelations were a simpler problem. There were no close ones except the\nelder brother of my Great-Aunt and Grandmother, my unknown Uncle\nJohn, who was too rheumaticky to travel down from London even if Aunt\nJael had had a mind to invite him or he to accept her invitation;\nand my mother's sister and Grandmother's only surviving child, Aunt\nMartha of Torribridge, with her husband, Uncle Simeon Greeber, whom\nI had never seen; there was some feud between Aunt Jael and Uncle\nSimeon, dating from before I can remember, sufficiently formidable to\nprevent his crossing our threshold for many years, although he lived\nbut eight miles away. Aunt Martha, however, paid us fairly frequent\nvisits. She was a pale thin, indeterminate-looking woman, who impressed\nme so little that I was often unable to conjure up her face in my\nimagination; a vague, tired face, in which Grandmother's gentleness\nhad run to feebleness. When her husband was unpleasant with her, which\naccording to Aunt Jael was pretty often, she submitted feebly; when\nAunt Jael spent the whole of one of her afternoon visits to Bear Lawn\nabusing her, she listened feebly. For this one occasion, however, Aunt\nJael decided to sacrifice her dislikes to that ancient law by which the\nfamily must be represented at all major festivals and feeds. For some\ntime, too, Aunt Martha had been insisting, with all the feebleness of\nwhich she was capable, on Mr. Greeber's longing for a reconciliation\nwith his revered aunt by marriage. So he too was invited. The only\nother askable relative was a niece-in-law of my Grandmother's,\nthe daughter of old Captain Lee's only sister, now a fat widow of\nforty-five, Mrs. Paradine Pratt. She lived over at Croyde, on three\nhundred pounds a year of her own; was a Congregationalist, and fond of\ncats.\n\nThe final list thus comprised: Old Maids of Tawborough (including the\nhostess), seven; Saints, five; Old Friend, one; Relations, three.\nTotal with Grandmother and myself, eighteen. Never before had such a\nmultitude assembled within our doors.\n\nThe problems of space and food were next envisaged. The sacred\nfront-room was to be thrown open; there the guests would be entertained\nbefore and after the meal. Dinner would of course be served in the\nback-parlour; by putting the two spare leaves into the table and\ntacking a smaller table on at one end, Aunt Jael calculated that there\nwould be adequate eating-space and breathing-space for all.\n\n\"'Twill be a tight fit though. You, child, will have your meal in the\nkitchen.\"\n\n\"Then so will I,\" said my Grandmother.\n\nAunt Jael was taken aback. She was silent for a moment, casting about\nfor another unreasonable suggestion with which Grandmother would have\nto disagree; the old trick by which she always strove to pretend that\nthe guilt of cantankerousness was my Grandmother's.\n\n\"Glory, of course, will be in her usual stool in the corner.\"\n\n\"Now, sister, don't be foolish--\"\n\n\"There you go! Disagreeing with everything I say. Whose party is it,\nmine or yours?...\"\n\nMiriam--Miriam who used the Great One's porridge plate as spittoon--was\nour cook at the time. Sister Briggs, humble little Brother Briggs'\nhumbler little wife, was called in for the day itself as extra hand.\n\"Proud to do it, I know,\" said Aunt Jael, \"and glad of the meal\nshe'll get and the pickings she'll carry away.\" Aunt Jael held with\nno nonsense of class-equality, no \"all women-are-equal\" twaddle.\nSpiritually the Briggses ranked far above unsaved emperors, or kings\nwho broke not bread. Spiritually, but not socially. So while Brother\nBrawn and Sister Quappleworthy were summoned to the seats of the mighty\nin the parlour, Sister Briggs, their co-heiress in salvation, came to\nthe scullery to wash-up at the price of her dinner, a silver shilling\nand pickings.\n\nVast preparations went forward: a record Friday's marketing, a record\nscrubbing and cleaning, a record bustle and fuss.\n\nThe great day dawned. Both armchairs had been removed from the\nback-parlour to the front-parlour to increase the table-space in\none and the sitting accommodation in the other. In her familiar\nchair, therefore, though in an unfamiliar setting, my Great-Aunt sat\nenthroned: robed in her best black silk, crowned with a splendid cap\nall of white lace and blue velvet ribbon that I had not seen before,\nand armed with that stout sceptre I had seen (and felt) from my youth\nup.\n\nThe first arrivals were Aunt Martha and her husband. They came over\nearly from Torribridge, and had arranged to spend the whole day and\nstay the night with us. I was curious to see Mr. Greeber, as I had\nnever seen an uncle before. Aunt Jael's dislike of him whetted my\ncuriosity, and also of course prejudiced me in his favour. Any such\npreconceived sympathy fled from me the moment I set eyes on him. Can\nI have foreseen, half-consciously, that this was the creature to be\nresponsible for the wretchedest moments and the worst emotions of my\nlife? Anyhow, I remember with photographic accuracy every look, every\ngesture, as he minced through the doorway behind Aunt Martha, springing\nsoftly up and down on the ball of the toe, moving quite noiselessly.\nHe was a thin little man, narrow shouldered, small-made in every limb.\nHis face was pallid, without a trace of blood showing in the cheeks. He\nhad a mass of curious honey-coloured hair, that you would have thought\npicturesque, if it had crowned the head of a pretty woman or a lovely\nboy. Of the same hue was his pointed little beard. His mouth I did not\nspecially notice till he began speaking, when he moistened his lips\nwith his tongue between every few words and showed how pale and thin\nand absolutely bloodless they were. His eyes changed a good deal. For a\nmoment, as when they rested on mine and read there my instant dislike,\nthey answered with a moment's stare of hard cruelty, such as blue eyes\nalone can give; most of the time they rolled shiftily about, chiefly\nheavenward. His gestures were exaggerated; he bent his head forward,\npoked it absurdly to one side, and gave a sickly smile--intended to\nbe winning--whenever he spoke. With his soft overdone politeness, his\npointed little beard, his gestures, he looked like the traditional\nFrenchman of caricature; except for his eyes, which whether for\nthe moment cruel or pious, had nothing in common with that amiable\ncreature. He was unhealthy and unpleasant in some undefined way new to\nmy experience. Aunt Jael had a sound judgment after all.\n\nHe advanced to greet her, oozingly.\n\n\"Good day, good day, dear Miss Vickary. One rejoices that the Lord has\nwatched over you these three-score years and ten; one is thankful,\nthankful indeed. M'yes. Your kindness, too, in extending one your\ninvitation--believe me, one will not readily forget it! And you too,\ndear Mrs. Lee, one is pleased to see you, to be sure. So this is the\nlittle one! One is well pleased to meet one's little niece.\"\n\nHe chucked me under the chin, saw the expression in my eyes, and never\ntried the playful experiment again. It was hate at first sight, and he\nknew it.\n\nAunt Jael's voice sounded gruff--and honest--enough after the unctuous\nflow. \"Well, good day to 'ee, Simeon Greeber, and make yourself\nwelcome.\" (Meaning: \"You know I dislike you and always shall. Still,\nnow that for once in a way you are in my house, I shall try to put up\nwith you.\")\n\nA slight pause, while his eyes wandered piously round the room,\nencountering everywhere spears, clubs, tomahawks, idols, charms. \"What\ninteresting objects! Trophies of the Gospel, one may surmise! Why,\nsurely not, surely not, can that great heathen image in the corner\nbe the same, the selfsame one, as was brought back by one's dear\nlate cousin, Immanuel Greeber, Immanuel Greeber of Tiverton, one's\nwell-loved cousin Immanuel?\"\n\nBenamuckee stared impassively. \"Yes,\" said Aunt Jael. \"It is the same.\"\n\n\"Ah, what a symbol of folly, what a sign of darkness! The field of\nforeign labour is, of course, your own special interest in the Lord's\nwork, both yours and dear Mrs. Lee's, is it not? That is _well_ known.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied my Grandmother, \"as you know, the child here is\ndedicated to the Lord's work among the heathen.\" I puffed inwardly.\n\n\"What an honour, ah, what an honour! For oneself, one confesses, the\nhome field comes nearest to one's heart; to one's earnest, if humble\nendeavours. M'yes. There is sad darkness far away, in the heathen\ncontinents and pagan isles, one knows, one knows: but here in England\namong one's nominal Christians, there is, alas, greater darkness still.\nAh, these half-believers, these almost-persuaded Christians!--Once one\nwas one oneself. So one knows. One was a Baptist, as you know, dear\nSisters; one hardened one's heart against the ministrations of the\nSaints. Then one blessed day, the scales fell from one's eyes--one saw\nthe error of one's ways--and one joined the one true flock.\"\n\nI disliked him curiously as he murmured and whispered away in a soft\ntreacly flow punctuated only by sticky lip-moistenings and heavenward\nsniffs; this miracle-man who never ever used the best beloved pronoun\nof all the human race.\n\nHis utterance was cut short by new arrivals. Grandmother received them\nin the hall, saw to the hat and coat doffing, and ushered them into the\nthrone-room. I noted the slight variations in my Great-Aunt's manner\nas she motioned the different guests to chairs and accepted their\ncongratulations and good wishes. With Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge she was\nregal.\n\n\"Thank 'ee, we are old friends, you and I. Yes, thanks be to the Lord.\nI'm well enough. And you? How are 'ee?\"\n\n\"I am burdened this morning,\" he said, with that kingly glance all\nround him to see that all his subjects were attentive, which we knew to\nherald some pearl of godly epigram. \"Yes, I am burdened this morning.\"\n\n\"Burdened?\" echoed Aunt Jael.\n\n\"Burdened?\" echoed my Grandmother.\n\n\"Yes, dear sisters. 'He daily _loadeth_ us with benefits.' Psalm\nsixty-eight, nineteen.\"\n\nThis was the old patriarch's immemorial trick: to make some statement\nthat was certain to provoke query, and then to explain its apparent\nparadox by swift quotation from the word of God. A later generation\nmight think his method crude, his texts subtly irrelevant; but there is\nno question that the Saints, including my Grandmother and Great-Aunt,\nadmired the godly wit and treasured all the texts. So when \"the pilgrim\npatriarch of Tawborough\" came up to me in the corner from which I was\nstaring at him, I felt a high sense of pleasure and importance.\n\n\"Well, well, and how is this little sapling in the Lord's vineyard?\"\nPaternally, pontifically, he patted my head.\n\n\"Well enough, thank 'ee,\" replied my Grandmother for me, \"but not\nalways a good little handmaiden for Him. She likes better to waste\nher time sitting and doing nothing than mending her socks or studying\nthe Word. She could testify by a happier frame of mind and busier\nfingers in the house and by speaking more freely of the things of the\nLord. Would you not urge her, Brother, even at this tender age to do\n_something_ for the Master?\"\n\n\"No, I would not.\" Query invited, epigram looming ahead.\n\n\"Then what would you do?\" asked my Grandmother.\n\n\"I would recommend her to do '_all things_' for the Master. Titus, two,\nnine.\"\n\nMr. Royle stumped in, a fat short old man, with a cheerful unsaintly\ncountenance and a general air of wealth and prosperity that I could\nput down to nothing definite except a heavy gold watch chain which\nspanned the upper slopes of his enormous stomach. His only rival in\nthis particular quarter of the body was Mrs. Paradine Pratt. These\ntwo alone, who wandered wearily outside the fold in the darkness of\nCongregationalism and the Church of England, had contrived to put on\nplenteous flesh. Was there some subtle hostility, I recollect asking\nmyself, between corpulence and conversion?\n\nThe before-dinner conversation was preoccupied and scanty. Brother\nQuappleworthy came alone, as Sister Quappleworthy was \"not--ah--too\nwell.\"\n\nThe company repaired to the dining-room. Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge\npronounced the Blessing, and we all sat down to do justice to that\nmighty meal. How odd this great assembly seemed in our austere\nroom, now for once looking reasonably well filled; I could see that\nthe experience was as odd to most of the guests as it was to me.\nGreat feasts were not within the ordered course of their spare and\ngodly lives. There was a certain constraint around the table, quite\nunmistakable, marked by loud and sudden silences.\n\nThis is how we sat:\n\n\n                         Aunt Jael\n                        +---------+\n    Pentecost Dodderidge|         |Mr. Royle\n    Lucy Clarke         |         |Fanny Baker\n    Brother Quick       |         |Brother Quappleworthy\n    Aunt Martha         |         |Keturah Crabb\n    Uncle Simeon        |         |Brother Brawn\n    Salvation           |         |Sarah Tombstone\n    Glory               |         |Mrs. Paradine Pratt\n                        +---------+\n                       Grandmother\n                           Mary\n\n\n(Note that the masculine element was stronger, both in quality and\nquantity, at Aunt Jael's end of the table than at ours. I was put on\nthe music stool, by my Grandmother's side at the doorway end of the\ntable, flanked by Glory on the left. Salvation had pleaded for a\nplace by dear beloved Brother Brawn; Aunt Jael condescended so far\nas to place them nearly opposite each other, but Brother Brawn was\ntoo nervous of his exposed right flank to allow his utterances to\nbe a feast of good things. He could not forget the piece Miss Crabb\nhad--long ago--bitten out of his beard.)\n\nIt was a royal spread. In the old West Country fashion, of course--no\nnew-fangled foreign nonsense or London messes. First appeared a great\nroast goose, a very queen of geese, turning the scale at fifteen pounds\nif an ounce. Her entourage included green peas, a vegetable marrow\nwith white sauce, gravy, and an onion stuffing beyond the power of\nmy poor pen to praise. Aunt Jael carved the monster, apportioning of\ncourse the choicest tit-bits to herself, the next choicest to Mr. Royle\nand Pentecost Dodderidge, the next choicest to Brother Quappleworthy,\nand so on; the quality of your portion varying with your position in\nAunt Jael's esteem. Thus I had a rather gristly piece of leg, and\nMiss Salvation some scraggy side-issues with that part more politely\nimagined in the mind's eye than mentioned on paper. The second course\nwas a great squab pie, made on Aunt Jael's own recipe: slices of apple\nand second-cooked mutton alternately, six layers deep, a sprinkling\nof shredded onion, with plenty of salt and Demerara sugar, pepper\nand cloves, a covering of delicious pie-crust. The third meat course\n(cold) comprised a fine ham and one of Mrs. Cheese's special beef and\nham rolls covered with bread crumbs and as big as a large polony: with\npickled onions (Aunt Jael's) and pickled plums (Grandmother's), to help\nthem down. For Sweets, which honest folk call pudding, you could choose\nbetween dear little cherry tartlets, made in our best shell-shaped\npatty-pans, all crinkled-edged; or stewed raspberries and black\ncurrants with junket and Devonshire cream, this fourfold alternative\nbeing my choice and (to this day) my own private notion of what they\neat in heaven. On, on the banquet rolled: Cheddar cheese, biscuits,\nnuts, pomegranates, and home-made apple ginger. In contrast with Aunt\nJael's closeness and our every-day plain living, this sardanapalan\nspread was the more sensational. The drinks were sherry, raspberry\nvinegar and water.\n\nMy Great-Aunt was in a rarely serene mood, enthroned far away at the\nhead of the table, with white-haired Pentecost on her right hand and\nbald-headed Mr. Royle on her left. Salvation chewed enjoyingly; the\nfork method of picking your teeth at table struck me, uninstructed as\nI was, as somehow unsuitable for an important social gathering. She\nremarked in a noisy whisper to Glory that it was just as well we'd\nbegun at last as she was feeling \"turrible leer.\"[1] Mrs. Paradine\npanted as she ate; her damp and diminutive handkerchief was applied\nincessantly, often only just in time to prevent a trickling on to her\nimmense bombazine bosom. I spied Uncle Simeon with a higher quality\nof curiosity. He knew I was watching him. In return he began craftily\neyeing me when I was looking elsewhere: I pretended I was unaware of\nhis scrutiny. In this specially feminine habit I was already an adept;\nand I feel sure I deceived Uncle Simeon, who stared his fill. When,\nhowever, I took my turn at staring, and he tried the same pretence, he\nfailed utterly to deceive me, for I could see his eyelids twitch, while\nthe faintest flush came to his pallid cheeks.\n\nI cannot pretend to remember much of the conversation, though I could\ninvent it and be near enough the truth. The awkward silences were still\napparent. My explanation of it is this: that everybody present (for all\nbut two were Saints) was quite unused to meet together except for godly\ndiscoursings. Though it was the creed they believed (and practised) to\ntestify of holy things in season and out of season, yet all dimly felt\nthat today was somehow exceptional, that it was neither necessary nor\nsuitable to preach to each other over roast goose and squab pie Christ\nand Him crucified. Yet what other topics had they? Hence the uneasy\nquiet, which the clatter of knives and forks and the orchestration\naccompanying Miss Glory's curious methods of absorbing nourishment only\nseemed to heighten. What a slobbering and sipping and a spluttering and\na splashing! The liquid mush consisting of tiny morsels of goose-meat\n(chopped up by Grandmother) and scraps of soft bread mixed with\nstuffing and sauce and soaked in gravy, which she was now administering\nto herself with her wooden spoon, offered good scope for her talent;\nthough being of a greater consistency than her usual goat's milk and\nrusks, it did not allow her to display her supreme effects. Even so,\nshe made herself heard by her far-away hostess. A warning look shot\nfrom the table-head:--\"Quieter there, or to the corner yer go!\" it said.\n\nFor a moment Glory subsided, but this made the general silence only\nmore obvious and painful. Aunt Jael realized that though good eating\nis the object of a dinner, good talk is the condition of a successful\none. She stooped to conquer, broke the last canon of hostship, and as\nthe great squab pie was placed before her, praised it blatantly. The\nsuccess was instantaneous. Echoes of praise rang up the table. \"Ay\nindeed!--a fine one that!--you're right, Sister Vickary!\"--and what\nnot. Two tributes distinguished themselves, as you might expect.\n\n\"There's squab pie _and_ squab pie,\" said Miss Salvation. \"This _is_\nsquab pie,\" and, last of all, when every one else had tired of eulogy,\nthe still small voice: \"One wonders if one ever tasted anything one\nliked so well.\"\n\nTongues were at last set wagging. Different recipes were discussed\nand their respective merits compared. Some thought the mutton should\nbe fresh, others that second-cooked gave the best flavour; some that\nmoist white sugar cooked better than Demerara, others that you should\nuse hardly any sugar at all, as a squab pie wasn't a sweet pie after\nall, now was it? Some thought it was, however: the idea of cooking\napples without sugar, mutton or no mutton! Then the puff-paste issue\nwas raised, and here the gentlemen joined in, as this was a question\nof taste rather than technique. Gradually the conversation veered\nto the wider topic of food in general; and before long every one\npresent was exchanging tender confidences in that most intimate form\nof self-revelation: \"one's\" favourite things to eat. Even Grandmother\njoined in. I alone said nothing, being under strictest orders \"to\nbe seen and not heard.\" (I felt the restraint keenly, for I was\nproud of my own catalogue, viz:--Devonshire cream, whortleberry jam,\nmussels, tripe and treacle; then pancakes, potato-pie (the browned\npart), sage stuffing, seed-cake, junket, crab, apple-dumpling,\nbread-and-butter-pudding, especially the \"outside,\" brawn, cockles, and\nblack-currant jam.)\n\nI must have been reflecting on my own pets rather than hearkening to\nthe praise of other people's, for the conversation had changed, and\nthey were discussing \"degrees.\" One of my favourite psalms, the 121st,\n_I will lift up mine eyes to the hills_, was described in the Bible as\n\"A Song of Degrees,\" and I had always wondered what they were.\n\n\"Degrees, degrees? That means puttin' letters after yer name, does it?\nWull, then\"--Salvation fumbled in her reticule, always a veritable\nmine of papers, letters, photographs of herself, and other _pi\u00e8ces\nd'identit\u00e9_ (as though she lived under the fear of perpetual arrest)\nand produced triumphantly an addressed envelope--\"There now!\" It was\npassed round that all might read this legend:\n\n\n    Miss Salvation Clinker,\n      Sinner Saved by Grace,\n            High Street,\n               Tawborough,\n                   N. Devon.\n\n\n\"What _splendid_ testimony for the postman, zes I, what _splendid_\ntestimony for the postman!\"\n\n\"But--\" Brother Quappleworthy alone dared a \"but,\" for had not he alone\namong the Saints achieved the honour of putting real letters after your\nname? He smiled; with maybe a dash of quiet superiority, with just a\nseasoning of annoyance, just a nice Christian seasoning, mark you,\nnothing more. \"But--is that a _real_ degree, sister?\"\n\n\"Rale degree? 'Course 'tis: S.S.G.--_Sinner Saved by Grace_. None o'\nyer cheap truck: S.S.G.!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; but like B.A. for instance, dear sister?\"\n\n\"B.A.? I'm a B.A. too.\"\n\n\"_You_ a B.A.?\" echoed voices.\n\n\"Yes: Born Again!\" shouting.\n\n\"Quite so, quite so, please God so are we all. But I am talking of\nearthly degrees.\"\n\n\"Are yer? Wull, I'm a-talking uv 'eavenly ones!\"\n\n\"There's B.B. too,\" put in little Lucy Clarke, nervously seeking to\npour oil on troubled waters, \"two B's arter your name, I think it is,\ntho' mebbe I'm wrong.\"\n\n\"Two B's or not two B's!\" observed Mr. Royle, and laughed loudly when\nhe found that no one else did. I wondered why. I doubt if any one\npresent saw the point except my Great-Aunt and Grandmother and Brother\nQuappleworthy. It was many years before I did.\n\n\"Good, sir, good,\" said the latter worldlily, \"a quotation from the\nworks of Shakespeare, if I mistake not.\"\n\n\"Shakespeare!\" shrieked Miss Salvation, as though uttering some lewd\nword, \"I'm surprised at 'ee, 'avin' the chick to mention such a\nsinner's name in a Christian 'ouse; an 'eathen play-actin' sinner, now\nwallerin' in everlastin' torment for his sins.\"\n\n\"How do _you_ know he is?\" asked my Grandmother quietly.\n\n\"And 'ow du 'ee know 'e isn't? A Papis' too.\"\n\nBlessed are the peacemakers, so Lucy Clarke tried again.\n\n\"I don't think 'tis B.B. at all after all; 'tis D.D., two D's arter\nyour name in a manner o' spaikin'.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's D.D.,\" said Aunt Jael. \"All the big preachers in the\nEstablishment print it after their names; not but what their preaching\nis poor enough. Letters after your name don't put either a tongue into\nyour head or the knowledge of God into your heart. I've no patience\nwith D.D.'s.\"\n\n\"None,\" echoed the table.\n\n\"Not so,\" corrected Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge. \"It is a great pity there\nare so few D.D.'s.\"\n\n\"Surely not!\" exclaimed the table, awaiting pearls.\n\n\"Yes, we want more _D_own in the _D_ust. Psalm one hundred and\nnineteen, verse twenty-five. Then we would also have more 'quickened\naccording to Thy Word.'\"\n\nA pause, forced by the awkward finality of the patriarch's utterance.\n\n\"Er--let me see,\" said Mr. Royle to Brother Quappleworthy, \"you are an\nM.A. of the University of Oxford, are you not, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the reply, spoken with just a seasoning of pardonable\npride, just a Christian seasoning, mark you, nothing more. \"Yes\"\n(confidentially) \"as a matter of fact I am. I took my degree,\nsecond-class honours, in the classics: 'Greats' as we say--\"\n\n\"Did yer?\" interrogated Salvation (for pride is a deadly sin and a\nweed that must be checked, lest it grow apace). \"Wull, _I_ took _my_\ndegree in summat greater, in God's great Scheme o' Salvation, and _I_\npassed with first-class honners, glory be! Unuvursity uv Oxvurrd eh? My\nschoolin' 'as been in the Unuvursity uv _God_!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter that I recollect nothing clearly till all the guests, save Uncle\nSimeon and Aunt Martha, were gone, and late in the evening we sat\ntalking in the unfamiliar idol-haunted dusk of the front parlour. I\ncan feel again as I write the heat of that stuffy August night, and\nhear Aunt Jael's and Uncle Simeon's voices engaged in the talk that\nis stamped indelibly on my mind. I recall the scene most intimately\nwhen the same external circumstances recur. The heavy-laden atmosphere\nof a hot August evening, at that still murmurous moment when twilight\nis yielding to night--the smell, the touch, the impalpable _feel_ of\nthe atmosphere--always brings back to me every phase and pulse of my\nfeelings as I sat listening to the warfare of deep raucous voice and\nsoft honeyed one. The memory of the senses far transcends the memory of\nthe mind. Memory in its most intimate possessions is physical.\n\nThough mental too. In this particular instance, quite apart from any\nphysical aid to memory that atmosphere brings, I remember, verbally,\nalmost all that was said. It is odd that while for stretches of whole\nmonths I can often fill in but the dimmest background of my early days,\nat other times I retain the fullest details of a long and intricate\nconversation, with the gestures of the speakers and the very words they\nused. The explanation is to be found partly, I think, in the extreme\nmonotony of my life and the uncommonly vivid impression which any\nbreak in the monotony always made; so that this record tends to be a\nstringing-together of the odd and outstanding events rather than an\neven and continuous narration of my \"early life\"; for it was a life of\nlandmarks. But the chief explanation of the uncanny degree to which I\nremember certain particular scenes lies in my nightly \"rehearsals.\"\nIf there had been any scene or words of special interest in the day's\nround--if I had observed a new phenomenon (such as a Madonna or a\ngold watch-chain)--if I had heard a new word (like University) or had\nnew light shed on an old one (like Degrees)--if in short the day had\nyielded any new fact or idea, the same night saw it deliberately\nstored in my mind; a treasure-house--a lumber-room--which stood open to\nall comers. Every night, as soon as I was in bed and my Grandmother had\nblown out the candle and closed the door behind her, I began. I thought\nmy way through the day, from the moment I had risen onwards. Every new\nnotion or notable event, I recalled, re-lived, and received into the\nfellowship of things I knew, felt and remembered; into myself. I had\nalso weekly, monthly and yearly revisions.\n\nThis seventieth birthday of Aunt Jael's was a red-letter day. My\nemotions as I lay awake watching with memory's eye that curious dinner\nparty, with its wealth of new food, new faces, new situations, new\nsensations and new talk, were of the same order as those of a playgoer\nwho lives over in his mind the pleasures of a new and brilliant\ndrama he has witnessed. New persons and new conversations were my\nfavourite acquisitions; these were in the strict sense dramatic, and\nthey approached most nearly the other habit of my inner life--my\nvisualizings and imaginings--of which indeed they furnished the raw\nmaterial. I would only memorize conversations from the point at which\nthey began to interest me; hence, even when I remember them best, they\nbegin suddenly, and causelessly.\n\nSo it was with the conversation on that memorable evening. I fancy Aunt\nJael and Uncle Simeon had already been talking for some time--probably\non the things of the Lord, which were not new and not dramatic--but I\nrecall nothing until Uncle Simeon was well set in a review of his life;\nhis holy, if humble life.\n\n\"M'yes, ah yes, the Lord found it good to try one's faith; from the\nvery day on which one saw the error of one's ways, and the scales fell\nfrom one's eyes, and one closed with God's gracious offer, from that\nvery day the Lord found it good to extend His hand in chastisement and\nto visit one with trials and afflictions. One bowed one's head: but\nit was a sore trial for one's faith, one's earnest, if humble, faith.\nFirst one's sister passed away, one's dear sister Rosa. Then came one's\nbusiness troubles, one's ill health, one's grave illness. Last of all\none's dear old father went before--\"\n\n\"Your brother too,\" interrupted my Great-Aunt. \"You don't mention him;\nand he was the best of the Greebers, from all accounts.\"\n\n\"Ah, surely not, surely not?\" ignoring the main point of the\ninterruption, \"what of Immanuel Greeber, who gave you these glorious\ntrophies of the field of missionary labour, one's well-loved cousin\nImmanuel?\"\n\n\"There was some mystery about his death,\" pursued she, ignoring\nred-herring missionaries. \"They never really knew how he died. Immanuel\ntold _me_. He went to lie down in his bed one afternoon, saying he felt\nsick, and within the hour he was dead.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" sighed Uncle Simeon, passing his hand over his brow in\nanguish, \"one had not spoken of him; one could not; one's love was too\ntender. Heart-failure, one thought oneself. M'yes.\" His head m'yessed\nsadly to and fro.\n\n\"More like something he'd been eating,\" suggested my Grandmother.\n\n\"Too sudden for that,\" objected Aunt Jael. \"No bad food could kill\nyou so sudden. 'Twas something a deal quicker than bad food; more\nmysterious, folk said.\"\n\n\"Poison,\" said I.\n\nI was staggered at the sound of my own voice. All day I had been mute,\nobserving so obediently Aunt Jael's \"To be seen and not heard\" mandate\nthat she had been almost annoyed. Listening was more remunerative than\ntalking; it yielded the wealth for my lonely talks with myself. I think\nit was that in my interest in this mysterious death I forgot I was not\nalone; and so uttered aloud the word \"Poison\" that leapt absurdly to my\nmind.\n\nThe effect on Uncle Simeon's face amazed me.\n\nHis look of meek head-nodding sorrow gave place to one of such\nunmistakable _guilt_ that the most monstrous suspicions seized me; nor\ndid they disappear when guilt changed to fear, then fear to hate; still\nless when hate in its turn gave place to the meek accustomed mask. Mask\nit was, for I had seen him deliberately twitch the muscles of his face\nback into position. From that moment, and with no other evidence than\na few seconds' change of expression, in which my eyes might have been\ndeceiving me, I believed him a murderer.\n\nGrandmother and Aunt Jael saw nothing of this. The first was too\nshort-sighted--the room was nearly dark, and no candle had been\nlighted--the second was too busy for the moment rating me for breaking\nlaws and talking \"outrageous nonsense\" to keep her eyes on him.\n\nThis gave him time to twitch the muscles of his brain and tongue back\ninto position also.\n\n\"Anyway, whatever the sad cause of his earthly death, one may rejoice\nthat he went to be with the Lord.\"\n\n\"Yes, and that he left all his money to you. Leastways there was no\nwill found, and you were next of kin. That helped to console you a\nlittle, maybe.\"\n\n\"Miss Vickary!\"\n\n\"Yes, more than a little, too. It left you enough to close your shop in\nBristol and do nothing ever since.\"\n\n\"Nothing, Miss Vickary, nothing? All one's years of hard, if\nhumble, toil in the Lord's vineyard, one's ministrations to the\nSaints--nothing? And poor Joseph's wealth, it was but a modest sum--\"\n\n\"So modest no one's ever heard. It's mock poverty yours, and you know\nit.\"\n\n\"But one's humble manner of life should show--\"\n\n\"Folk as are mean aren't always poor.\"\n\n\"Aunt!\" pleaded Martha feebly.\n\n\"Mean; dear Miss Vickary, may you one day regret that unjust word. Far\nbe it from one to speak of all that one has given to the gospel work in\nTorribridge, of all that one has lent to the Lord. Yet what are worldly\nriches? One cares only for the unsearchable riches of Christ. What are\nthe earthly gifts one may have given away? One has given to many a\ngreater gift far. Not only the knowledge of Salvation, but a Christian\ndeed here, a helping hand there--\"\n\n\"Open sepulchre! Helping hand--like when Rachel and Christian lay\ndying, and you forbade Martha to leave Torribridge even for a few hours\nto come and help her mother. Let your wife's mother half kill herself,\nand her brother and sister crawl into their graves before you'd let her\nmove. 'Couldn't spare her' from the side of yer 'dear little son'--ugly\nlittle brat, I'm glad you've not brought him here today.\"\n\nNow there was a spice of righteous protest in the meek voice. \"Pray\nwhat has one's poor little son done to be so spoken of? Or one's dear\nwife to hear him so spoken of?\"\n\nMartha was silently wiping her eyes. Aunt Jael, struggling with temper,\nmade no reply.\n\n\"Or oneself to see one's wife so wounded? One has never forgiven\noneself for not realizing till alas too late how near the end dear\nRachel and dear Christian were; but at the time one's little baby-boy\nwas ailing, and Martha none too strong. One was selfish, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Ay.\" Temper rising.\n\n\"One failed in one's duty to dear Mrs. Lee, because of one's jealous\ncare of one's dear child and wife.\"\n\n\"Fiddlesticks! I know some of your goings-on. Poor Martha!\"\n\n\"Poor Martha? One fails to understand. _If_ Martha had been treated\nas poor Rachel's husband treated her; _if_ she had suffered\ncruelty--adultery--vileness--sin; _if_ one were hounding her to her\ngrave as he hounded poor Rachel; _if_ one had killed her and broken her\nheart, and then sneered that one could not pay to bury her--\"\n\n\"The brute,\" cried Aunt Jael, sidetracked.\n\nHis crude attempt to transfer her rising wrath on to the head of\nanother had succeeded. He knew the quality of the memories he evoked.\n\n\"The brute; the cruel, fleshly scoundrel!\"\n\n\"Hush, Aunt,\" whispered Aunt Martha, \"after all it is the Child's\nfather.\"\n\nI coloured violently, and my heart beat fast. The unfamiliar phrase\n\"Rachel's husband\" had conveyed nothing. Now I was throbbing with\nexcitement, curiosity and shame.\n\n\"Well, let her know the truth.\"\n\n\"O Mother, plead with Aunt not to talk so!\" Aunt Martha was trying\nto stifle the topic on to which her husband had so successfully\nemptied the vials of Aunt Jael's wrath. He gave her a \"you wait till\nafterwards\" glance that told me a good deal, concentrated though I was\non this other overshadowing thing.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said my Grandmother, \"leave your Aunt be. The child\nwill have to know it some day; and 'tis the truth.\" She sighed.\n\n\"There you are! If a child has the wickedest beast of a man on earth\nfor her father, the sooner she knows it the better, so that she may\nmend her ways and turn out a bit different herself. She has more than\na spice of his ways about her already. She'd best be told every jot\nand tittle of the whole story. No one's too young to hear the truth.\n'Tis your task though, Hannah. You tell her, if you think fit. But not\ntonight, it's past the child's bed-time. Be off now! To bed!\"\n\nI undressed feverishly, that I might be the sooner in bed to go through\nall I had heard. I recited hymns rapidly to myself so that I should not\nthink at all till I could do so properly and at peace.\n\nGrandmother came in for her nightly prayer.\n\n\"Grandmother, is it true? My father. Who is he? What did he do? Tell\nme, is it true?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear.\"\n\n\"Did he do--all those wicked things?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear.\"\n\n\"Will you tell me everything?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, if the Lord so wills. Let us approach the throne of\ngrace and discover His good pleasure.\"\n\nDown on my knees by her side I watched her as she asked the Almighty\nwhether He willed that the story of my father and mother should be\ntold me. Grandmother was always fair. She did not try to influence the\nLord's decision, as Aunt Jael might have done, by giving undue weight\nin her supplications to the arguments either for or against.\n\n\"Dost Thou will that at this tender age she should learn of these\nsorrows, that they may be sanctified to her for Thy name's sake; or\ndost Thou ordain that I should wait yet awhile before I speak?\"\n\nWe waited the Answer. I knew it would be \"Yes,\" I knew it with the\nsudden instinct that so often served me. Prayer and intuition were\nindeed sharply commingled in my mind. One was your speaking to God, the\nother God speaking to you. God is swifter; instinct is swifter than\nprayer; answer than question.\n\n\"Tell the child now? So be it, Lord; since such is the answer that Thou\nhast vouchsafed.\"\n\nThen she prayed that the story might be richly blessed to me, and that\nhe whom it chiefly concerned might be given, despite all, contrite\nheart and true forgiveness.\n\nWhen she left me to myself and darkness, I was repeating to myself\nthe stinging words I had heard. Cruelty, adultery, vileness, sin--the\nfleshly scoundrel--he had hounded my mother to her grave, broken her\nheart--killed her. _He my father._ I had a father then. It is proof of\nthe gaps in my many-sided visualizings day after day and night after\nnight that I had never thought of this, never even wondered whether I\nhad a father or not.\n\nI did not know how to wait till the morrow. Perhaps they were talking\nabout it downstairs; I jumped out of bed, crept halfway down the\nstairs, and listened. The front-room door was shut, and though I\nsoon heard that a duologue between Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon was\nin progress, I could make out only a few words here and there. My\nimagination constructed a conversation connected with myself, and\nsomehow too at the same time with Torribridge and Aunt Martha and\nstudies. I did not think much of it at the time, as my ears were hungry\nfor \"father\" and \"mother\" only--\"Rachel\" and \"Rachel's husband.\"\n\nI went back to bed. Early next day Uncle Simeon and Aunt Martha\nreturned to Torribridge.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[1] Empty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X: OLD LETTERS\n\n\nNext day after dinner, when Aunt Jael had settled down for her doze,\nGrandmother called me upstairs to her bedroom, pulled out an old brown\ntin box from under the bed, unlocked it, and drew forth a large brown\npaper packet. We sat down, and she told me my mother's story.\n\n\"Your father belonged to a different class from us, my dear, quite to\nthe gentlefolk of the county. Your mother met him at his cousin's, Lord\nTawborough's, when she was governess there.\n\n\"This Lord Tawborough died a few years ago. The boy who now bears\nthat name is a lad of maybe seventeen or eighteen, who I expect knows\nnothing about it at all, although he was very fond of your mother when\nshe taught him as a little boy.\"\n\n\"Shall I ever see him?\"\n\n\"No, my dear, no. You are in a different walk of life. Young squires\ndon't come to visit us. Not that his father ever had any false pride;\nI know he was always very kind to me. He came to Rachel's funeral, and\nnever had his cousin--your father, that is--inside his house after the\ntrouble. He wanted to help us too in educating you, but I said No.\nI would not touch money belonging in any way to _him_, though I've\nforgiven him long ago, as I trust the Lord has. He thought I was too\nindependent, but maybe he understood all the same. I've heard that the\nyoung boy is as good-hearted as his father. He lives at the family\nhouse over near Torribridge; he's just going up to Oxford, I believe,\nlike his father, or maybe 'tis Cambridge--\"\n\n\"What is Oxford-and-Cambridge? Brother Quappleworthy was there.\"\n\n\"They're two big colleges, or universities as they call them, where the\ngentlefolk go. Anyway, his father was always kind to us and ashamed\nof his cousin. He said to me when he called to see us after your dear\nmother's death that he felt guilty because Rachel met her husband in\nhis house. However, there 'tis, they were married. I never took to him\nand your Aunt Jael could never abide the sight of him. 'Twas a cruel\ntime. I can't tell you all now, my dearie, though one day you may know.\nBut I'm going to read you some of the letters she wrote. Here they all\nare, I've not had the heart to touch this package since they were tied\nup ten years ago. She wasn't happy from the start, though she wrote\nbrave letters home. We first got to know how it was with her through\nyour great-uncle, her uncle John. She'd stayed once or twice with him\nin London, as a little girl, and he loved her dearly. We have never\nseen much of him since he first went away over fifty years ago. He and\nJael don't get on together; he's an invalid too, and not able to take\na journey. After your dear mother died he let me see all her letters\nto him, and I copied them out. Here is one of the first, written just\nthree or four months after she was married, the 'long letter' I call\nit:\"\n\n\n     THE WHITE HOUSE.\n     TORQUAY,\n     August 14th, 1845.\n\n     Dear Uncle John,--\n\n    Thank you for you kind letter of sympathy. Yes, I am an unhappy\n    woman, and unhappy for life.\n\n    Perhaps it will simplify matters for me to say that he is in a\n    very precarious mental condition. The doctor tells me he has\n    every symptom of softening of the brain. Though the disease may\n    not culminate for several years. He says my one object must be to\n    keep him quiet and not oppose or excite him in any way, as that\n    would always tend to hasten the climax, and would make things\n    very trying for myself, especially just now; for I must tell you\n    that something will be happening to me, about next February I\n    think. Last week he had a dreadful turn, and said the most cruel\n    things, shouting and sneering at me like one demented. I went off\n    then to the doctor, really thinking myself he was there and then\n    going or gone out of his mind. He told me what I have said, and\n    through all subsequent improvement adheres to the same opinion;\n    he is very kind and sympathizing to me, calls it, \"a painful and\n    extraordinary case,\" and tells me not to be upset when he gets into\n    this state with me--that it is an almost invariable symptom of the\n    disease for the patient to set upon his wife and bring against her\n    outrageous accusations of every sort, that I must not contradict\n    him in whatever he says, but rather \"assume contrition for faults\n    you have not committed, regarding him as an invalid that cannot be\n    dealt with by ordinary rules.\" I must tell you that I have begun\n    to doubt all this, I don't mean the doctor but my husband. He has\n    a nervous weakness, it is true, but exaggerates this when he goes\n    to see the doctor by getting himself into a state, then the doctor\n    says he has softening of the brain and that will excuse all his\n    ill-treatment to me.\n\n    That is not all, the two youths, Maurice and Trevor who are living\n    in the house and whom he calls his \"cousins,\" are really _his\n    illegitimate sons_, he told me so outright and mocked at me when I\n    blushed. They swear and shout at me, and he encourages them. With\n    all this he is the leader at the Room, the meeting of the Close\n    Brethren we go to. The Saints don't seem to like him very much. I\n    think they know something of his goings on. My dear uncle, I charge\n    you not to speak of all this; I should not on _any_ account like\n    mother to know it, it could do no good for her to worry. He may\n    keep like this for years, or perhaps I might be taken away to the\n    Lord first.\n\n    I was glad of your loving letter; had begun to think there must\n    be one awaiting me (from the style of your previous one) before\n    yesterday morning confirmed it. They raise objection however at the\n    Post Office, saying it is against the rules for residents to have\n    them left there, so I suppose you must address to me here. Philip\n    seems never to expect me to show him my letters. I did one a few\n    weeks ago, in which there was some business message or statement.\n    So you will always be safe in writing direct. It is one of his\n    peculiarities that though he has often thrown at me my depth,\n    \"keeping matters to myself,\" \"telling him nothing,\" etc. etc., yet\n    from the very first he declined to see my letters. I used even to\n    press him to do so but he replied one day, \"I take no interest in\n    letters from people I don't know, still less from common people\"\n    (among whom my relations are included). Then if I tried reading him\n    any specially interesting extracts he would say it wearied him or\n    would assure me I had read or told him all that before. Since he\n    said one day, \"Dear me, what shopkeeper's talk!\" I have quite given\n    up intruding my correspondence on him. At rock bottom it is a sort\n    of jealousy. Some husbands seem to have the idea that their wives\n    should throw to the winds all old ties and relationships.\n\n    As to my going home now; it is utterly out of the question. All\n    other objections apart, I could not now take the journey. Then as\n    to having Mother here, as things are (even if he would allow it),\n    the worry of it would do me more harm than her presence could do me\n    good. There might be an actual outbreak on his part, and Maurice\n    and Trevor would give her an experience such as I would spare her\n    at all costs. What could she do for me? Later on, I should have\n    a nurse and of course a doctor, the kind one I spoke of, the one\n    Philip consults. You rather mistake me as to the possible _end_\n    these matters may bring. I don't mean that I should be more likely\n    to die from what has been taking place, simply that from natural\n    causes it is a thing that has to be faced at such a time. Many\n    women _do_, who have all the love and devotion they can require,\n    and I have all along felt (not forebodingly or morbidly, but as a\n    matter of fact) that such an event might be of more than ordinary\n    risk in my case. I am not very strong, and always lacking in power\n    of endurance, and then I am so wretchedly unhappy and lonely. All\n    my trouble and despondency will lessen the natural clinging to\n    life and give me instead a longing to be at rest beyond it all, as\n    far as self only is concerned. But on the other hand if the baby\n    lives, that will be sufficient counteractive against my giving-away\n    tendency. I shall feel more than a mother in ordinary case could\n    do that I _must_ try to live for its sake. Any other issue I am\n    content to leave in God's hands but cannot face the thought of\n    leaving the child behind me--_with him_. So if I should be taken,\n    don't trouble yourself with the thought that my end has been\n    hastened by these things that ought not to have been. For the Lord,\n    I believe, has taken special care of me and given me more health\n    of body than I could under ordinary circumstances have expected,\n    to meet the extra strain laid on mind and spirit. So we may trust\n    surely by what has gone before that He will uphold me all through\n    with special health and strength. \"He setteth His rough wind in the\n    day of His east wind\" has been constantly before me of late.\n\n    I shall not leave my husband as long as it can anyhow be avoided.\n    Death is to me a far more welcome thought to face than being a\n    trouble or a burden for my friends. There are troubles in which\n    sympathy makes all the difference, but between husband and wife\n    it is different, and the quieter one can keep things the better.\n    Uncle, dear, don't you see that the sting and real heart-bitterness\n    a woman must feel at wrong and unkindness from the one from whom\n    she has expected only love and protection, can never be healed\n    or soothed by proclaiming it to the world at large or by leaving\n    him? It may be pride or self-respect that makes me shrink from\n    the thought of such a thing, but have no scruples as to your\n    responsibility in keeping it quiet, since I told you I have no\n    _bodily_ fear of him, and he knows it. Suppose you tell mother\n    or any one else, if they share your view they can but repeat the\n    same arguments, and if repeated twenty times my feelings and\n    instincts remain the same. Say nothing, uncle, for my sake if not\n    for his--for mother's too. It is true if I came away he could not\n    rail at me but still that is only the outward expression of what\n    is within and which distance would not alter, and with the baby\n    it will be easier to bear. I shall have something to live for and\n    comfort myself with, and considering his condition I cannot see\n    that it would be _right_ to leave him unless I am in danger of my\n    life. It is a wife's duty to endure. I have thought of speaking\n    to Mr. Frean, a leading Brother at the meetings and a very kind\n    man. I think a fear of exposure in this quarter would have more\n    weight with him. While he can afford to set at nought the opinions\n    of my friends and relatives at a safe distance, he clings very\n    tenaciously to his religious position. I should have sympathy\n    there. I think they know I have something to put up with and they\n    show me great kindness and would show more if I availed myself of\n    it. Philip remarked one day it was strange that \"his wife should\n    be popular at the Room while _he_ never had been!\"\n\n    On one point your anxiety is needless. I have what I wish for\n    in the shape of nourishment. Was never a large or extravagant\n    eater, but what I want I have. Was reflecting only a day or two\n    ago that this is the _one_ point on which he uniformly shows me\n    consideration. In fact, I think he does this on purpose to salve\n    his conscience, and to have something to throw back at me. Once\n    when I said \"Oh, Philip, don't be so unkind to me,\" he replied,\n    \"Unkind? Damn you, I don't see what you have to complain of, you're\n    living on the fat of the land, better than with your shopkeeper\n    friends.\" Sometimes, you know, I believe he imagines he loves me;\n    perhaps he does as much as he would any wife, but I have told him\n    he does not know what love is. Love!\n\n    The only thing which sometimes nearly drives me to the breaking\n    point is this; he praises my amiability, meekness, wifeliness,\n    obedience, and says \"you are different from most women who are\n    always either nagging and answering back or gloomy and sulky.\" I am\n    \"so much better than he ever expected.\" When he talks like that I\n    feel stirred up to say some pretty plain things to him, and clear\n    my mind at all costs, but then if I do I might excite him and bring\n    on a fit of apoplexy or paralysis as the doctor said. If I say the\n    least little word he holds this over my head. I wonder now, after\n    only a few short months, why I ever married him. I have spoilt my\n    whole life. Two years ago, I was a happy young woman; and now--\n    Don't write to him, don't threaten him, and don't come near here,\n    it can do no good. Good-bye, Uncle dear.\n\n    Your ever loving\n    RACHEL.\n\n\nMy Grandmother paused. I know what I thought--I can live my feelings\nagain at this moment, forty years later.\n\n\"At the time,\" said my Grandmother, \"Rachel said very little to me. I\nknew it was difficult, but not as unhappy as it was. In the March of\nthe next year a baby boy was born. You're not old enough, my dear, to\nknow what it is to be a mother when her baby comes; a man should be\ngood and kind to his wife more than at any time, and thank the Lord\nmost of 'em are. _He_ was wicked. May the Lord in his mercy forgive\nhim. Still, the baby made her happier. Here is a letter she wrote to me\na month or two after it was born.\"\n\n\n    THE WHITE HOUSE.\n    TORQUAY,\n    May 20th, 1846.\n\n    My Dearest Mother,--\n\n    Thank you for all the loving sympathy from all. Am getting on well,\n    though the heat has been trying me greatly. I came downstairs\n    yesterday. I cannot stand a minute without help, as the lying in\n    bed has made me so weak. Baby is doing first-rate, grows more\n    engaging every day. It was rather too bad of you to rejoice in my\n    disappointment, especially as the little girl was to have been\n    named after my dear mother. What is the supposed advantage you see\n    in a boy? Why is a boy thought more of than a girl? Perhaps you are\n    proud of having a grandson; I certainly have centred all my ideas\n    on a girl; I have always had an idea that the child I should have\n    that would be most like me, and _who would do what I might have\n    done if I had been happier_, would be a girl. I feel so still;\n    though I can't tell you why.\n\n    But this is a dear little man and I should not like to spare him\n    now he has come. He never squeals but stares the whole time; the\n    doctor says he is big enough for five or six months old. After\n    the miserable state I've been in, I rather wondered whether his\n    brain would be right, but he is certainly \"all there,\" and a bit\n    over, if it comes to that. He is very sharp. But he is very good\n    at night and has slept seven hours right off for five nights past.\n    He notices everything, his little eyes will dance round after any\n    one who notices him and when the door one day suddenly rattled\n    with the wind he turned his eyes towards it with a look of inquiry\n    and astonishment. Some wagging ends on Nurse's cap are a source of\n    unfailing interest. He has not a flaw or even a sore upon him, has\n    a nice little round, comfortable, sensible face, just plump enough\n    to be well conditioned but not coarse. I think he is something like\n    Martha. He has nice eyes, dark blue, which when closed take rather\n    a Japanese curve, the Traies' snub nose, a pretty little mouth,\n    large hands, very long fingers with pretty little filbert nails. He\n    is more like his father than anybody in face. He is full of pretty\n    little antics, will clasp his hands as if in prayer, or shade one\n    over his eyes with a thumb extended, exactly like \"saying grace.\"\n    Will labour hard sometimes to stuff both fists into his mouth at\n    once, it is amusing to see his wriggles and struggles, getting\n    quite angry, till at last he gets hold of some knuckle or thumb\n    and settles down to enjoy it. He wants his milk very irregularly,\n    but so far I've kept pace with him.... We have not yet decided on\n    his name. Not Philip, I think, for I don't like the \"big Bessie,\n    little Bessie, old George, young George\" plan. I should like Harold\n    or Edgar, or perhaps Christian--by the way I'm sorry to hear that\n    Chrissie is still so weak, give him my best love. Do you know\n    that baby's birth made me _want_ to like Philip more than ever? I\n    told him so the other day, he just _sneered_. It's hard, mother,\n    isn't it? But I must not worry you, or make you think he is really\n    treating me so very badly, he sees that I get all the food and\n    nourishment I need. Don't believe all Uncle John says!\n\n    Here I must conclude as I'm not yet strong enough to write more.\n    Give my love to Aunt Jael, and to Hannah, and my respects to Mr.\n    Greeber, when you write. With my dearest love to you mother, I\n    remain\n\n    Your loving\n    RACHEL.\n\n\n\"Here is one she wrote to her Uncle about the same time:\"\n\n\n    THE WHITE HOUSE.\n    TORQUAY,\n    June 24th, 1846.\n\n    My dearest Uncle John,--\n\n    Many thanks for your kind and prompt reply to my note. My reason\n    for requiring a promise was that I feared that on knowing how\n    things stood you might be unwilling still to do nothing, as I know\n    you have even as much of the outspoken Vickary disposition as Aunt\n    Jael! You will be sorry if not surprised when I tell you that my\n    husband leads me a more trying life than ever. I cannot repeat or\n    write the words he uses or the things he abuses his position as a\n    husband to do. My little boy is the only earthly comfort I have,\n    and but for him and the dear Lord I don't think I could have borne\n    up at all. I have kept it carefully from my own family all along,\n    it is not my fault that mother knows as much as she does. I hate\n    her to have to hear my troubles. Then, too, I've excused things on\n    the ground of disease, for his mind is disordered, but still he\n    is nothing like so far gone but that he could behave better if he\n    chose. I am surer than ever that he deceives the doctor so that\n    he can use the bad view of his health which the doctor takes, as\n    a cloak for all his cruelty. 'Tis very good of you to assure me\n    of your help but I will still try to stay with him, and so far he\n    has not used actual bodily violence. He has gone the length of\n    threatening it, of lifting up his foot as though to kick me and\n    shaking his fist in my face but stopped short each time, saying he\n    was \"not such a ---- fool as to give me a chance of getting the law\n    for him!\" I will promise this: to make your silence conditioned on\n    his behaviour not getting worse. That may have some effect on him.\n    But mother _must_ not be worried. In any case it would not be worth\n    while to try to come here to see him, he has threatened he will set\n    the dogs on them if he finds any of my relatives \"prowling about\n    the place.\"\n\n    Don't worry about me. Now that I have my little boy to kiss and\n    comfort me I can put up with everything.\n\n    Your loving niece,\n    RACHEL.\n\n\n\"And here is another to me:\"\n\n\n    THE WHITE HOUSE.\n    TORQUAY,\n    Aug. 20th, 1846.\n\n    My dear Mother,--\n\n    Many thanks for kindly sending on the vests, they are (both sizes)\n    a nice easy fit, and I'm very pleased with them. I am feeling\n    better, though Torquay is very relaxing and in the summer, at\n    times, unbearable.\n\n    Now that Uncle John seems to have told you all it is no good\n    pretending any longer that I am anything but absolutely wretched.\n    Believe me, mother, it was not dishonesty but for your sake only\n    that I said so little. Now it is getting so bad that I should not\n    have been able to keep it from you longer. They are all behaving\n    disgracefully, worse than ever. Not only all the family, the two\n    boys Maurice and Trevor, I mean, but all the servants too, and\n    the very errand lads who come to the house are encouraged to be\n    insulting. I'm really afraid to go about the house and when keeping\n    in my own immediate quarters am shouted at and annoyed from stairs\n    and windows. He and Maurice attacked me together last week, or\n    rather he called Maurice to join in, and the two called forth the\n    most unprovoked and outrageous insolence while the scullery maid\n    shrieked with delight and clapped her hands at the fun. Another\n    day, the cook threw a cabbage root at me when I went into the\n    kitchen, hitting me on the neck. Mr. Traies' only redress when I\n    turned to him was \"That's nothing, you shouldn't go into quarters\n    where you're not wanted. A wife in her kitchen, indeed! what _are_\n    we coming to?\" It is something sickening the whole time; I know I\n    shall go mad before long. Have run right out of the house twice\n    lately but the poor child drags me back. I don't know that you\n    can do anything beyond plainly speaking your mind, or threatening\n    to expose him right and left if that would do any good. There\n    certainly ought to be some law to prevent a woman being hounded\n    out of her life by the very servants in the house. If I say the\n    least word or attempt to expostulate he puts his hand up to his\n    forehead, begins to moan and say \"the doctor said I was on no\n    account to have opposition, he said it might bring on a fit, indeed\n    I think it is coming.\" The wretched man--is there no law in England\n    to save a woman from cruelty far worse than the things for which\n    she can get the courts for her? Last week, he actually laughed in\n    my face, \"Your heart is breaking I suppose,\" he sneered. I said\n    \"Yes,\" looking him straight in the face. \"It's a damned long time\n    about it,\" he said. Yet I can do nothing; _that_ is not cruelty! I\n    do wish he would do me some real bodily harm that would give me a\n    hold over him as long as he didn't permanently incapacitate me. I\n    have thought of asking Brother Frean at the Meeting to find me a\n    safe temporary lodging where I could go, and say I would not return\n    until he dismissed these insolent maids. That would be at least\n    one point gained. But until he sent Maurice away there would be no\n    real improvement. You cannot imagine, mother the filthy things he\n    says, and _does_ before me. They have made a complete tool of the\n    new servant too. She has been very unsatisfactory in every way,\n    refusing to get up in the morning and shouting at me. However she\n    kept within bounds till I gave her a week's notice last Wednesday.\n    Immediately he came and raved and sneered at me: \"Come, come, the\n    mistress of the house dismissing a housemaid, surely this is going\n    a little _too_ far,\" and he ordered her to stay. Since then she\n    has behaved shamefully, they all of course upholding and cheering\n    her, making her presents, etc. Today I have proved her having\n    stolen some silk handkerchiefs of mine, in even this he upholds\n    her. \"Freely ye have received, freely give,\" he said! Yesterday it\n    reached the climax. The whole pack were howling at me, he, looking\n    on and mocking and encouraging them. Then Maurice tripped me up as\n    I was going out of the room, and I went full length on the floor.\n    In my weak state, I nearly fainted. _He laughed._ I still want to\n    hold out; I will never leave him unless it is to come home and die.\n    All I have to comfort me is your sympathy, my little baby and the\n    love of Christ.\n\n    In haste, your loving daughter,\n    RACHEL.\n\n\nMy throat was very dry, I could not trust myself to speak.\n\n\"Soon after,\" went on my Grandmother, \"the little baby boy died, and\nthen we persuaded her to take a holiday. At least we put it to her that\nwe thought we hoped it might be bringing her away from him for good.\nShe came home, spending November and December of 1846 with us at home\nin the old house in the High Street, and then went to her Uncle John's\nin London for the first few weeks of '47. When your mother left her\nuncle, she came to us again for a few days and then decided to go back\nto her husband. Jael was against it, but she was sure it was her duty\nto the Lord, and I would not persuade her though my heart sank when she\nleft us. He behaved worse than before. The last few months at Torquay\nwere beyond her endurance and she began to sink away. Now here is a\nletter your great-uncle wrote me just before she left him, when things\nhad reached their worst.\"\n\n\n    Messrs Vibart & Vickary,\n    MINCING LANE,\n    LONDON.\n    Jan. 3rd, 1848.\n\n    Dear Hannah,--\n\n    I have been out of patience with you as you will know. Since last\n    March when she stayed with you and you allowed her to go back to\n    the fellow. If I don't hear definitely that she has left him within\n    the next ten days, infirm though I am, I shall take the coach to\n    Exeter and on to Torquay taking a friend with me, and if we have\n    any trouble whatever with Traies he will get such a thrashing that\n    he will not be able to appear in public for some time. If ever\n    there was a cruel, damned scoundrel who deserved shooting he does,\n    and should not in the least mind putting a few bullets into him.\n    What annoys me more than anything is that you should encourage\n    the poor girl, agreeing with her that it is her Christian duty to\n    remain there all this time and put up with such diabolical cruelty;\n    worst of all now that there is another child on the way.\n\n    Let me know at once that she has left him or I shall act without\n    delay.\n\n    Your affectionate brother\n    John.\n\n\n\"And here is the last letter she ever wrote me herself. It was snowing\nthe day it reached me:\"\n\n\n    THE WHITE HOUSE.\n    TORQUAY,\n    Jany 7th, 1848.\n\n    My dearest Mother,--\n\n    Your kind and loving letter came yesterday. Well, mother dear,\n    I have given in. I have decided to go away. I am weaker now,\n    broken in body and spirit, and if I stay here with his taunts and\n    ill-treatment _I shall go mad or die_. In any case I think it is\n    the latter; but now that there is a child coming, for its sake I\n    must go where I shall have more peace. My life is a broken failure.\n    Four short years ago what a happy girl I was at the Hall with kind\n    people around me, a loving little boy as my daily companion, and I\n    was a credit and pride to you all. I know you never wanted me to\n    marry him. I chose my way and I have failed utterly. Yes I know,\n    mother, I know with a positive assurance that I could have loved a\n    good and loving husband as much as any woman in the world; it was\n    _in_ me. Well, it is no good talking of that now, for I have not\n    very long before me now. Today I told him I was leaving him for\n    the last time. He mocked in his usual sort of way, but I am beyond\n    minding that. He is too much of a coward, I have come to know, to\n    prevent my leaving by physical force. I hope to get away tomorrow,\n    and am already halfway through my packing, so expect me very soon.\n\n    Your loving\n    RACHEL.\n\n\nMy Grandmother spoke in a calm way, much sadder than any sobbing or\ncrying. Here for the only time she put her handkerchief to her eyes for\na moment. \"Just at the time your dear mother came back to us to die,\nmy little boy Christian was dying too. The day after we buried him you\nwere born, then seven days later your mother died. Your Great-Aunt was\na good sister to me, she took turns at sitting with your mother every\nnight; saw the friends who called and wrote all the letters. Here is a\ncopy of what she wrote to your Great-Uncle:\n\n\n    NORTHGATE HOUSE,\n    HIGH STREET,\n    TAWBOROUGH.\n    March 2nd, 1848.\n\n    Dear Brother,--\n\n    You will be glad of a line to tell you a fine girl was born this\n    morning at half past five; the baby is doing splendidly, but Rachel\n    is very weak. Nurse and doctor are in constant attendance. Hannah\n    stays with her all the time and doesn't go downstairs. With young\n    Christian just buried the Lord is trying us hard. We are truly\n    passing through the waters of affliction. Hannah is too busy to\n    write herself or I should not be writing to you, the first time I\n    think for nearly thirty years.\n\n    Your affectionate sister,\n    JAEL VICKARY.\n\n\n\"Here is your Great-Uncle's reply, addressed to me:\"\n\n\n    LONDON.\n\n    _In haste._\n\n    Dear Hannah,--\n\n    Do everything possible for dear Rachel as regards nursing and\n    doctors that money can command. I pay everything.\n\n    JOHN.\n\n\n\"And two more letters your Great-Aunt wrote to your Great-Uncle will\ntell how your dear mother died:\"\n\n\n    NORTHGATE HOUSE,\n    HIGH STREET,\n    TAWBOROUGH.\n    March 8th, 1848.\n\n    Dear Brother,--\n\n    I write again to give you news of Rachel. Upon receiving your kind\n    note we decided on calling in Doctor Little but I don't think he\n    can do more than Dr. Le Mesurier has, he has been unremitting in\n    attention but there will be nothing to regret in having had further\n    advice. Nurse Baker looks after the baby, she is a very nice child\n    and is doing well. Hannah is wonderfully sustained, she sat with\n    Rachel last night, I was with her the night before. It would make\n    things very much easier if Martha would come over from Torribridge\n    but Mr. Greeber, her husband, will not allow it, pleading their own\n    child who is as healthy as he is ugly and now quite a year old.\n    Rachel has been wandering today, sewing and arranging garments for\n    the child. She suffers badly. The doctor thinks it is peritonitis.\n    I fear it will be but a few days more, it wrings my heart to write\n    it.\n\n    I have just taken the liberty of writing a note to Lord Tawborough\n    to ask him to use his influence with his cousin that the child\n    may remain to be brought up by us in case of Rachel being removed\n    from this world. He replies he will insist on it. It has comforted\n    Rachel greatly. I wrote to Mr. Traies a few lines on the day she\n    was confined to state the fact of a girl being born and that his\n    wife was not doing too well, commencing \"Dear Sir\" (being civil). I\n    am glad it was done, although he did not respond; we have done our\n    part and shall not write to him again until she ceases to be his\n    wife. Oh brother, when I think of how the wretched man has hounded\n    her and brought her down in health and strength to an early grave\n    (for the doctor says she had not the strength to go through her\n    confinement because of the harass and ill-treatment that preceded)\n    I feel he will have a recompense even in this world for his cruelty\n    ... God's vengeance is sure, and He will avenge. The doctor now\n    says twenty-four hours will decide. We give her Valentine's extract\n    of milk and ice which she takes every half hour ... nothing has\n    been left undone. May God bless the means and give us grace to bear\n    His will.\n\n    Regret you are not well enough to travel. If you had been well\n    enough to come I need not say that for Hannah's and Rachel's sake\n    I would have let by gones be by gones, so with our united love, I\n    remain,\n\n    Your affectionate sister,\n    JAEL VICKARY.\n\n\n    NORTHGATE HOUSE,\n    HIGH STREET,\n    TAWBOROUGH.\n    March 9th, 1848:.\n\n    Dear Brother,--\n\n    Dear Rachel was unconscious all the night but didn't seem to\n    suffer. She gradually sank and peacefully departed at a quarter\n    past ten. I know you will not be able to come to the funeral but we\n    know all your love to your beloved niece during her life. Hannah\n    scarcely realizes it as yet. Dear Rachel wished the baby to be\n    called Mary. She gave a few directions most calmly and quietly, and\n    wished the text, if we had cards, to be \"Made meet to be partakers\n    of the inheritance of the Saints in light,\" or else \"These are they\n    which came out of great tribulation.\" Hannah is hearing up well,\n    sustained by the Lord's grace. _Thy will be done._\n\n    With our united love,\n    Your affectionate sister,\n    JAEL VICKARY.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"And so she died,\" concluded my Grandmother, \"and left you to me.\"\n\nI wanted to hear more. \"And the man?\"\n\n\"What man?\"\n\n\"My--father.\" It was one of the hardest things I ever did to utter\nthat word. I felt foolish, flushed, and somehow wicked. The word was\nunfamiliar, and it was vile.\n\n\"Well, I wrote him a letter saying I forgave him for everything--\"\n\n\"Forgave him, Grandmother!\" I cried. \"That was wicked!\"\n\n\"I forgave him as I hoped the Lord would too. I just told him in the\nletter about her funeral and how it had passed off.\"\n\n\"Did he write back?\"\n\n\"Yes, and in all his life there was nothing so cruel as the reply he\nsent me. Here it is. I know the foreign note-paper; for he went abroad\nstraight away to avoid the scandal and trouble, though the Saints at\nTorquay publicly expelled him from their Meeting when they knew the\nfacts. Listen:--\n\n\n    HOTEL MEURICE, PARIS.\n    March 31st, 1848.\n\n    _Madam_,--\n\n    Your letter apprehending me of my late wife's funeral has been\n    forwarded to me. If you imagine this thinly veiled hint that I\n    should bear the funeral expenses will succeed, you are singularly\n    mistaken. For such a wife, nominally Christian, who deserted her\n    husband, I propose to do nothing of the kind. You may sue me at\n    law, of course; but pause for a moment: _would your dead daughter\n    have wished you to?_\n\n    Yours truly,\n    PHILIP A. G. TRAIES.\n\n\n\"May God in His mercy forgive him for writing that. It took me years\nto be able to. I have never heard from him since. I heard he sold the\nhouse in Torquay and lives mostly abroad. That, my dearie, is the end\nof a long story. Always love the memory of your dear, good mother and\ntry if you can to forgive your father, for whatever he has done, he is\nyour father.\"\n\n\"I will never forgive him, it would be wrong to forgive people who have\ndone things to you like that. Never!\"\n\n\"It's the only true forgiveness, my dear, to forgive those who wrong\nyou cruelly.\"\n\n\"I shall forgive every one in the world; but him, never.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI don't think these events are told out of their place. It was at this\nstage of my life that all these past doings entered _my_ life; it is\nhere they should be told. For me they took place now; from now onwards\nthey influenced my life and thoughts. Of the impressions I received,\npity and love for my mother, and hate and loathing for my father ranked\nequally. I thought of her still as an angel, but her eyes were sadder.\nAs for him, I vowed to myself that afternoon, that some day in some way\nI would avenge my mother. How I kept that vow is another story; till\nthen this resolve had a constant place in my life and imagination. It\ndid a good deal to embitter a view of the world already gloomy enough\nfor ten years old.\n\nThese were not the only emotions rushing through my heart that\nafternoon. There was admiration and love of my Grandmother; how\ngreatly she had suffered, how little she complained, how heroically\nshe forgave. There was a new reluctant respect for Aunt Jael; and a\nquickening affection for all who had been good to my mother, chiefly\nfor Great-Uncle John, who in two short hours had been transformed for\nme from a shadowy name into a warm and noble reality; for others also\nwho took a lesser part, such as the kind people where she had been\ngoverness and the little boy who loved her; for Brother Frean and the\nsympathetic Saints at Torquay. While I sat biting my nails and thinking\na hundred new things, some kind, some sad, some hideous and bitter,\nGrandmother was still rummaging among the letters.\n\n\"Why, here's a bundle of those she wrote when she was at Woolthy Hall,\nin her first happy days there. Listen, my dear, I'll read you the first\nshe wrote:\"--\n\n\n    Woolthy Hall,\n    North Devon.\n    Friday.\n\n    Dearest Mother,--\n\n    I hope you got my first note saying I had arrived safely. I am\n    very happy here, I have a nice little room to myself commanding a\n    lovely view of the Park. I went to see Lord Tawborough in his study\n    the same night that I arrived, and he was very kind. There will\n    be no invidious treatment here, of the kind you hear governesses\n    sometimes have to put up with. The work will be pleasant, the\n    little boy took to me at once. He has brown eyes and a frank little\n    face, rather solemn for his age, indeed I think he likes reading\n    books too much and not too little. The meals are of course very\n    good and I never felt better. Yesterday we went a carriage drive\n    to Northbury, and picked primroses in the woods there, five huge\n    bunches. The spring is a lovely time. It makes me happy because it\n    is the beginning of the year and promises so much, just as I am at\n    a new beginning of my life here, feeling sure I shall have a very\n    happy time. Send the cotton blouses and straw hat, for there's a\n    fine summer ahead!\n\n    With love to Aunt Jael and very much to your dear self from\n\n    Your loving\n    RACHEL.\n\n\nAs Grandmother finished reading, I sobbed as though my heart would\nbreak, for that happy letter was the saddest of them all. I have read\nsomewhere that with old letters, the happier they are, the more full\nof hope and life the writers, the more vivid and intense and joyful\nthe sense of the present time the more melancholy they are to read in\nlater years. The hopes then so warm and fresh seem now so far away.\nMen and women who when they wrote were hoping and planning are now but\nhollow-eyed and rotting dust. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher,\nall is vanity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI: EXTRAORDINARY MEETING FOR PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING\n\n\nFor some time all had not been well among the Saints. There was\nevidence of worldliness, backsliding, apostasy and sin. The Devil was\nactive in our midst.\n\nCertain Saints, after tasting for years the privilege of fellowship,\nhad left us: for chapel, or church, or nowhere. Others were becoming\nirregular in their attendance or took part in our devotions without\nfervour. There was moral backsliding too: chambering and wantonness.\nBlind Joe Packe had been discovered by Brother Quappleworthy in a\ndrunken stupor on the floor of the attic in which he lived, when the\nlatter was paying him one of his customary visits of Bible-reading and\nexhortation. There walked abroad also a vaguer, darker sin than drink\nthat I did not clearly apprehend, of which certain of the younger\nBrothers who were \"keeping company\" with certain of the younger Sisters\nwere whispered to be guilty. The most flagrant example, I gathered\nfrom a shrouded conversation between Grandmother and Aunt Jael, was\nSister Lucy Fry, who had a baby, but no husband. I thought this a\ncuriosity rather than a crime. For whatever reason, it aroused a sharp\ndifference of opinion; Aunt Jael denounced the awfulness of Lucy's sin,\nGrandmother urged that she was more sinned against than sinning.\n\nThen Sister Prideaux had been to some concert or \"theatre\" during a\nholiday at Exeter. The precise nature of the godless entertainment was\nnot ascertained. Nor was it clear how the news had reached us, though\nmost thought it was wormed out of Sister Quappleworthy by Sister Yeo.\nThe latter openly taxed Miss Prideaux with it.\n\n\"So you went to the theayter did you, over to Exeter? Next time you're\nthere I suppose you'll be a-going to the _Cathedril_!\"\n\nThen there were the parliamentary elections in which some of the Saints\nhad been taking an unsaintly interest, voting for and championing this\ncandidate or that; a form of meddling with this world's affairs which\nPentecost regarded with special disfavour. Indeed Rumour had it that\none or two of the younger Brethren took part in the famous polling-day\nbrawl in the vegetable market. Several of even the most prominent\nSaints expressed preferences. Brother Browning being a draper was\nRadical, Brother Quappleworthy being an intellectual was Whig, Brother\nBriggs being an oilman was Tory.\n\nAunt Jael was an unbenevolent neutral. \"They're all much of a muchness\nand none of 'em any good to folk, neither in the next world nor in this\neither. In our family, _if_ we had been anything at all, we'd always\nhave been Whig--except the child's mother. She was Tory, or liked to\nthink she was. All the gentlefolk belonged to the Tories, and that was\nalways enough for Rachel.\"\n\nI was henceforward a fanatical Tory, though I had not the dimmest\nnotion what it meant, except that it was somehow connected with London\nand the Parliament. Aunt Jael refused to explain; Grandmother said it\nwas not worth explaining.\n\nBrother Brawn related how on the occasion of a visit from some\ncanvassers he had struck a blow for righteousness. \"They knocked at my\nfront door,\" he told Aunt Jael, \"folk as I'd never spoken to avore, nor\nso much as seen; 'Good mornin' sir,' said one of them, a tall, thin man\nwith spectacles he was, 'whose side are you on? Davie and Potts[2] I\ntrust.' 'No,' I said, 'I'm on the side of the Laur Jesus Christ,' and I\nslammed the door in their faces. 'Twas a word in season.\"\n\nAbout this time there was an epidemic of minor illnesses, which\nGrandmother said could only be the hand of the Lord extended in\nchastisement for sins which the suffering ones had committed. More\nmodern folk would have sought explanation in low vitality, indoor\nhabits or bad drainage, but point was given to my Grandmother's\ncontention by the fact that Sister Prideaux and Lucy Fry, prominent\namong the sinners, were about this time laid low with illness--the\nlatter not unnaturally. Her own attack of bronchitis, she attributed to\nthe selfish indulgence she had shown of late in perpetually studying\nher own favourite portions of the Word and neglecting (comparatively)\nthose she favoured less.\n\nWorst of all, that piece of sugar which for nineteen years--the period\nis always the same in my memory--had been placed in our offertory as an\ninsult to the Lord had now for two Sundays past become _four_ pieces,\none in each of the four partitions, a little bit of sugar for Expenses,\na little bit of sugar for Foreign Field, a little bit of sugar for\nMinistry, a little bit of sugar for Poor. It had been serious enough\nyears ago when the box with the narrow slits had been substituted for\nthe bag, and the sinner had merely retaliated by putting a small piece\nthrough one of the slits instead of a large lump down the gaping abyss\nof the bag. But now--four pieces, one in each partition,--what deftness\nin utter sin! What zeal in ill-doing! Who was this wolf in sheep's\nclothing, this sinner who could sit at the Lord's table for nineteen\nyears and harden his heart Lord's day after Lord's day by offering\nthis mockery of an oblation to his Saviour? Who was this evil spirit\nslim-fingered enough to perform this fourfold naughtiness, and yet\nremain undetected, unguessed? We all peered at our neighbours. Brother\nBrawn even began following the box in its voyage round the Meeting,\ninstead of merely handing it to the first giver and taking it from the\nlast; for all his spying he could find nothing. Was _he_ the man?\n\nThus in devious ways was the Devil active in our midst. He must be\nexorcised.\n\nSister Yeo's idea of a Special Extraordinary Meeting to chase him out\nwas finally adopted. All the Saints should assemble on a week night to\npray for help, and for the discovery, confession and true repentance of\nall the various sinners; to purge the repentant of their sins and to\npraise the Lord for pardoning them; to purge the Meeting itself of the\nstubborn and unrepentant--to cast them into the outer darkness. There\nshould be weeping and gnashing of teeth.\n\nA preliminary meeting to decide on procedure and agenda was held in our\ndining-room. The committee which assembled was chosen by Aunt Jael and\nconsisted of herself, Grandmother, Pentecost, Brothers Quappleworthy\n(despite theatre-going sister-in-law and known electioneering lapses),\nBrawn and Browning. Also, at Pentecost's special plea--\"'Twill be a\nsacrifice of self, I know, dear Sister Vickary; that is why I urge\nit\"--Sister Yeo was admitted. As soon as all the committee had arrived\nI was bundled out of the room, so I knew nothing of what was to happen\nexcept what I gathered from ear-straining on the staircase, and chance\nconversation between Grandmother and Aunt Jael afterwards. I gathered\nthis much: that the Extraordinary Meeting was to be preceded by a Tea.\n\nTo this same Tea on a memorable Saturday afternoon we proceeded;\nGrandmother, Aunt Jael, Mrs. Cheese and I. It is the only single\noccasion in my memory when the Saints met together for public eating.\nIn nothing did we differ more from the general body of nonconformists\nwith their socials, bun-fights, feastings, reunions, conversazioni and\ncongregational guzzles.\n\nThe Room presented an unusual sight. There were four long trestle\ntables covered with white cloths and laden with food, with forms drawn\nup beside them. The Saints, dressed in their Sunday best, were standing\nabout in groups when we arrived. Aunt Jael, puffed with the energies of\nher walk, sat down at once on the end of a bench. Her weight sent the\nother end soaring gaily into the air while she landed on the floor with\na most notable thud. The form banged back, not into position, but with\na swirling movement on to a plate of bread and butter.\n\nThere is proof of the awful respect in which Aunt Jael was held in\nthis: that not a soul dared to smile as she sat there on her broad\nposterior. For a moment or two no one even dared to help her to her\nfeet, fearing an outburst, for people like Aunt Jael are most dangerous\nwhen you try to help them out of a predicament. Then by a sudden\ngregarious instinct every one ran forward together in a sheep-like\nmass, and bore Aunt Jael--red, antagonistic and threatening--to her\nfeet.\n\nAfter a blessing had been asked by Pentecost, we sat down to tea. I\nrecall ham, bath-buns and potted-meat sandwiches. After tea the tables\nwere cleared, the trestles packed away and the crockery and cutlery,\nall of which had been lent, were put back uncleansed in clothes-baskets\nin which they had been brought by the owners; for the Room possessed no\nwashing-up facilities. The forms were then rearranged as for Breaking\nof Bread. Pentecost sat in his accustomed place at the right of the\nTable as you faced it; we in our usual front row; Brother Briggs to the\nright, Brother Quick to the left, Brother Marks, the old Personal Devil\nof my imagination, far away in his goggled corner. In the pulpit or\ndais, which was only used for the evening gospel meeting, were ranged\nBrother Quappleworthy--in the centre, in charge of proceedings--Brother\nBrawn on the right and Brother Browning on the left. Precedence and\nposition had been arranged at the committee meeting in our dining-room,\nwhen Brother Quappleworthy had been chosen as chairman. The whole\nstaging was as for a meeting in the secular meaning of the word. Indeed\nI remember feeling that the whole affair was a sort of excitement or\nentertainment rather than a religious service. This feeling vanished\nlike dew with the dawn when Pentecost stood up and in a short prayer of\nexceeding solemnity craved the Lord's blessing on our proceedings. The\nkeynote was SIN, its detection, confession, atonement; \"and Sin, Lord,\nis a terrible thing.\"\n\nBrother Quappleworthy rose to deal with the business before the\nhouse. \"First now, brethren, there's the question of those Saints\nwho have absented themselves from our--ah--mutual ministrations,\nthose backsliders who have left the Lord's table for other\nso-called Christian bodies or the walks of open indifference\nand--er--infidelity.\" Brawn and Browning murmured agreement.\n\nSister Yeo's voice rang out accusing and metallic: \"You're a fine one,\nBrother Browning, to um-um-er, and to sit in judgment on others. First\ncast out the beam from thine own eye! What of your own wedded wife who\ngoes openly to the Bible Christian chapel, and 'as done these fifteen\nyears; a source of stumbling and error to all the weaker brethren.\"\n(Sensation.)\n\n\"Silence, Sister,\" cried Brother Quappleworthy, \"none may speak here to\naccuse others, only to accuse self.\"\n\n\"True,\" murmured the Meeting, and the Chairman resumed his discourse.\n\"A list has been--ah--prayerfully prepared of all the Saints who have\nwithheld themselves from fellowship for a space of time. Do all our\nBrothers and Sisters agree that they be struck off our roll of grace?\nShall we say 'Ay' as we call each name? Brother Mogridge.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" arose murmurously.\n\n\"Sister Mogridge.\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"Sister Polly Mogridge.\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"Brother Richardson.\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"Sister Petter.\"\n\nThis time our tongues (I say \"our\" because I had joined unctuously\nin the Ay's) stopped short just in time as we remembered that Sister\nPetter was present. We all turned towards her. Her hand was over her\neyes, and she was weeping.\n\n\"Sister Petter,\" called Brother Quappleworthy in a solemn voice. \"You\nwho scoffed to unbelievers of the ministrations of the Saints, _You_, I\nsay!...\"\n\n\"Lord forgive me,\" she moaned. \"Oh Lord forgive me.\"\n\nPentecost arose with beaming face. \"There's joy in the presence of the\nangels of God over one sinner that repenteth.\" He went over to her and\nput his hand on her shoulder saying, \"Sister, be of good cheer, the\nLord hath forgiven thy sin.\"\n\n\"Amen,\" said we all.\n\nDrink and theatre-going and elections and illnesses were all dealt with\nthen in their turn; I remember them hazily. When the denouncing voice\nuttered the name Lucy Fry, I woke up into the most wide-awake interest,\nfor a _visible_ hush descended on the Meeting.\n\nBrother Quappleworthy had lost his usual urbanity: \"Sin of sins,\nabomination of abominations.\" His face was hard and fanatical.\n\nMy eyes kept straying to the place where Lucy sat. She was a young\nfresh-faced country girl. Tonight her rosy cheeks were pale, her eyes\ndrawn and she sobbed quietly but continually as her shame was exposed\nbefore us.\n\n\"Sister, repentest thou? Stand up, I say! Repent!\"\n\nIt was too much. The poor girl fainted. They bore her out insensible.\n\"Her first time out of doors,\" I heard it whispered, \"since the child\nwas born.\"\n\nA feeling of pity was evident among the Saints. Brother Quappleworthy\nrealized this and was determined to crush it. \"Remember, brethren, it\nis a sin too grave, too vile for God to wink at. No dallying with sin!\nI put it to you that Sister Fry be excluded from fellowship. A fleshly\nsinner must not pollute the Lord's table.\"\n\n\"Chase her out, Lord,\" cried Brother Brawn, \"this adulterous woman!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Brother Browning, nervously, bravely. \"She repents; the Lord\nwill be for mercy.\" The three Brothers fell to disputing on the dais,\nand the discussion spread to the whole body of the Saints till there\nwas a veritable hubbub in the Room. Brother Quappleworthy quelled it by\ncalling out in a loud voice: \"The Lord will show His will by means of a\nvote. Now those brethren who think it right that Sister Lucy Fry, the\nself-confessed sinner, be excluded from the Lord's table put up their\nhands.\"\n\nThirty-six hands were counted.\n\n\"Now those brethren who think that she, the sinning woman, should\nremain in fellowship.\"\n\nTwenty hands only were shown. Thus by sixteen votes the Lord, who is\nmerciful, voted against poor Lucy.\n\nThen a surprising thing happened. My Grandmother, for the only time in\nmy experience, stood up: \"I have one question, brethren. Who is the\nman?\"\n\nNo one had thought of that. No one does.\n\nThere was a whispering. It was confirmed that Lucy's guilty\npartner--whatever that might mean--was not a Saint and that nothing\ncould therefore be done.\n\nBrother Quappleworthy with sure dramatic instinct had reserved till the\nlast the super-sin: Sugar. \"This work of Satan persevered in over so\nlong a period in a human heart ... For nineteen years ...\" and so on.\nHe wound up by conjuring the sinner to confess, to repent ere it was\ntoo late.\n\nThere was no response to his appeal, and a flat and rather foolish\nsilence ensued. Then Pentecost Dodderidge prayed lengthily and\nearnestly that the sinner might be moved to reveal himself. Then\nanother long fruitless silence.\n\nPentecost arose again, solemn and determined: \"Brethren, we must slay\nthe Evil One working in one poor sinner's heart, now, this evening--now\nor never. No one shall leave this room until the guilty one has\nconfessed, not if we stay here for forty days and forty nights. Let us\npray silently that he may be moved.\"\n\nA new silence followed, but this time I was somehow expectant. The\nminutes, however, dragged on, five, ten, fifteen; I watched the\ncrawling clock. Surely it could not last for ever, surely the patience\nof the sinner must be worn out by our unending vigil.\n\nThere was a noise of some one moving. Every one opened their eyes and\nlooked up. It was only Pentecost Dodderidge on his feet again. \"The\nLord hath made it plain to me. He saith 'I will send a sign and then\nthe sinner will confess.'\" Hardly had he sat down than there was a\ngreat pelting of hail on the roof which continued for two or three\nminutes. With the noise no one heard Brother Marks, my spectacled\nPersonal Devil, until he stood in front of the Lord's Table facing us\nall with a countenance of ghost-like white.\n\nWhat followed I could never have believed had I not seen it with my own\neyes. He took a dark blue paper package from one pocket and emptied it\non one side of the Lord's Table; a shower of sugar came forth: little\nwhite lumps, the sort with which he had fooled us--preserving sugar the\ngrocers call it, the sort with which jam is made. Then he took out from\nhis other pocket a little cloth bag and poured out into a separate heap\non the other side of the Lord's Table a shining heap of golden coins.\nThen he knelt down in front of us all and sobbed and groaned and rocked\nhimself to and fro in an extreme agony that was terrible to see.\n\nNo one knew what to do, no one except Pentecost, who went up to him and\nlifted him to his feet; \"Jesus forgives thee,\" he said, \"let all of us\npraise His Holy Name.\"\n\nThe whole Meeting sprang to its feet, and burst forth into a hymn of\npraise. A solemn fast was declared for seven days, and we sang the\nGood-night Hymn:\n\n\n    Good night, dear saints, adieu! adieu!\n          Still in God's way delight;\n    May grace and truth abide with you--\n          Good night, dear saints, good night.\n\n    When we ascend to realms above,\n      And view the glorious sight,\n    We'll sing of His redeeming love,\n        And never say Good night.\n\n    Good night, dear saints, adieu! adieu!\n          Still in God's way delight;\n    May grace and truth abide with you--\n          Good night, dear saints, good night.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[2] Colonel Ferguson-Davie of Crediton and Mr. George Potts of\nTrafalgar Lawn, Tawborough, the two candidates successfully returned\nfor the Borough at the Election of 1859.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII: THE GREAT DISCLOSURE\n\n\nSoon after this, somewhere about my tenth birthday, in the early spring\nof 1858, an important relaxation in my rule of life was made. I was\nallowed, under strict limitations, to go out on the Lawn for a certain\nperiod every afternoon, and to mix with the children there.\n\nIn view of my Great-Aunt's principle, namely, to make my life as harsh\nand pleasureless as possible, and of my Grandmother's steadfast prayers\nand endeavours to keep me pure and unspotted from the world, this was a\nbig concession. The reason was my health. Grandmother saw that I never\ngot out of doors half enough, and that a couple of hours' play with\nother children in the open air would be likely to make me brighter in\nspirit and to bring colour to my cheeks. One Lord's Day, as we were\nwalking home from Breaking of Bread, I overheard Brother Browning: \"If\nyou don't take care she will not be long for this world,\"--nodding his\nhead sadly, sagely and surreptitiously in my direction. Anyway, the\namazing happened, and with stern negative injunctions from Aunt Jael\nnot to abuse the new privilege, nor to play \"monkey tricks,\" for which\nI should be well \"warmed,\" and with more positive and more terrible\ninstructions from my Grandmother to use my opportunity among the other\nchildren to \"testify to my Lord,\" I was launched on the sea of secular\nsociety, the world of the Great Unsaved.\n\nExcept for what little I saw of them at the Misses Clinkers' I had no\nacquaintance with other children, nor any knowledge of their \"play.\"\nWhile in the obedient orbit of my own imagination, I was bold, none\nbolder, in the situations I created, the climaxes I achieved, the high\nastounding terms with which I threatened the attic walls; face to face\nwith flesh-and-blood children of my own age, I soon found I was shy\nto a degree, until they were out of my sight, and I was alone again,\nwhen they joined the ever-lengthening cast of my puppet show, and, like\neverybody else, did as they were bid. Not that I was shy of grown-ups;\nit was the fruit of my upbringing that I was at ease with any one but\nmy equals.\n\nIt was a horrible ordeal, that first afternoon, when I stepped through\nour garden gate on to the Lawn. I walked unsteadily, not daring to look\ntowards the grass slope at the higher end, where all the Lawn children\nwere assembled in a group. \"Waiting for you! Staring at you!\" said\nself-consciousness; and fear echoed. I flushed crimson. I was half sick\nwith shyness. It seemed to my imagination that every child was staring\nat me with a hundred eyes--they knew, they knew! Marcus had heralded\nthe fact, had played Baptist to my coming--they were all assembled\nhere to stare, to flout, to mock. How I wished the earth would open\nand swallow me up or that the Lord would carry me away in a great\ncloud to Heaven. I dared not fly back into our garden: that way lay\neternal derision. Yet my legs would not carry me forward to the group\nof children who stood there staring at me without mercy, without pity,\nwith the callous fixity of stars. I was filled with blind confusion,\nand prayed feverishly for a miraculous escape.\n\nMiracle, in the body of Marcus, saved me. He came forward from the\ngroup.\n\n\"Hello, Mary Lee, we've been talking about you.\" (Of course they had.)\n\"I've told everybody you're allowed to play on the Lawn now, but we\ndon't know which League you ought to belong to.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? What's a League?\"\n\n\"Well, all Lawn children are in two sides for games and everything.\nLeagues means that. If your father and mother go to Church, you belong\nto the Church League, if they go to Chapel, you belong to the Chapel\nLeague.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Secular distinction based on religious ones was a principle I\nunderstood.\n\n\"Yes, but you're not one or the other. Brethren aren't Church, are\nthey? And they aren't _really_ Chapel.\"\n\n\"You're a Brethren too.\"\n\n\"Not like you are. Mother goes to the Bible Christian Chapel, and\nfather really belongs there too, for all he goes to your meeting. So I\ncount as Chapel.\"\n\n\"What do Papists count as?\"\n\n\"There aren't any. If there were any and if they were allowed to go\nabout, they'd be like you, neither one thing nor the other.\"\n\n\"Like me indeed! Papists like Brethren! Saints like sinners!\"\n\n\"Not really, not like that; Brethren are more like Chapel, I know.\nBesides _I_ want you to belong to our League, but--Joe Jones says\nyou're not to. There's a meeting about it tomorrow. All our rules and\nsports and everything are decided at the meeting we have--not like\nBrethren meetings--usually up at the top of the bank, near the big\npoplar. Joe Jones sits on the wall, and he's our president. I'll let\nyou know what happens about you afterwards. Till then I don't think\nyou'd better play with us. _I_ don't mind, but the others say you'd\nbetter not. If Joe Jones caught you! _I_ don't like Joe Jones,--don't\nyou ever whisper that, it's a terrible secret--but he doesn't like you,\nand he's the top dog.\"\n\nJoe Jones, topmost of dogs, Autocrat of the Lawn, pimpled despot\nagainst whose evil pleasure little could prevail, was a good deal older\nthan the rest of the children, by whom he was obeyed and feared. From\nwhat Marcus said his heavy hand was against me from the start. I knew\nwhy. He lived next door to us at Number Six, with an invalid, widowed\nmother (whom I had only seen once or twice in my life, as she was kept\nindoors by some mysterious infirmity which some described as grief and\nothers drink) and his sister Lena, a big freckled flaxen girl about\na year younger than himself. We rarely saw any of the three, and our\nhousehold of course had nothing to do with theirs (Church of England,\nstrict). But one morning as I was walking up the Lawn path on my way\nfrom school, Lena had called out to me over the privet hedge.\n\n\"Hello, you!\"--and then something else, including a word I did not\nknow, though instinct told me it was bad. The obscenity of the\ntraditional filth words lies as much in their sound as in their\nsignification. She repeated the words several times, combining artistic\npleasure of mouthing the abomination with sheer joy of wickedness in\nshocking me and staining my imagination.\n\nI went straight indoors and appealed to the dictionary. No help there;\nLena Jones had wider verbal resources than Doctor Johnson. Grandmother\nwould be sure to know. I went to that dear blameless old soul with the\nfoul word on my lips.\n\n\"What does ---- mean?\"\n\n\"Nothing good, my dear,\" she replied calmly, imperturbably, without\na trace of the flush that would have appeared in the cheeks of\nninety-nine parents out of a hundred. \"Nothing good, my dear. Where did\nyou hear it?\"\n\n\"Lena Jones--just now.\"\n\nGrandmother walked out of the house and rang the next-door bell. What\npassed between her and the grief- (or gin-) stricken Mrs. Jones I do\nnot know, but the results were, first, that Lena was sent away to a\nboarding-school, where I have no doubt she added suitably to the virgin\nvocabulary of her companions; second, that Joe, taking up the cudgels\nfor his sister's honour, became suddenly and most unfavourably aware of\nmy existence. He would threaten me if I passed him on my way to school,\nwhen I would cower to Marcus for protection. Once he chased me with a\ncricket bat. And now that at last I was near to gaining the status of\n\"one of the Lawn children,\" he was going to revenge himself by standing\nin my way. With the Lawn community a word from Joe Jones could make or\nmar. If he forbade the others to speak to me, they would not dare to;\nif he ordered them to persecute or tease me, they would obey. He was\nthe typical bully ruling with the rod of fear by the right of size. He\nwas the typical plague-spot too, polluting the whole life of the little\ncommunity.\n\nFor the Lawn was, in the true sense, a community. The well-defined\nbournes that were set to the oblong patch of greensward--the steep,\npoplar-crowned grass bank at one end, surmounted by a wall over which\nyou looked down into a back lane and a stable some twenty feet below\nyou; at the opposite end that marched with the street the high brick\nwall with one ceremonious gate in the middle for only egress to the\noutside world; then the two rows of houses the full length of both\nsides--gave to it a separate and self-contained character; the charm\nand magical selfishness of an island. All the children who lived\nin the Lawn houses played there, and played nowhere else. Though\ndivided into two mutually hostile leagues, they felt themselves to\nbe one blood and one people as against the strange world without the\ngates. Of this community Joe Jones was the uncrowned King. Like the\nearly Teutonic monarchs he was limited in power by the folk-moot, or\nprimitive parliament of all his subjects. Questions of Lawn politics\nwere decided at democratic meetings under the poplars at the top of\nthe grass bank. There were equal suffrage, decisions by majorities,\nand the feminine vote. Unfortunately Joe Jones had the casting vote,\nand as there prevailed the show-of-hands instead of the secret ballot,\na look from his awful eye influenced a good many other votes as well.\nIn short, the Lawn, like all other democracies, was, as wise old\nAristotle saw, always near the verge of tyranny. At the tribal meetings\nwere discussed and decided sports and competitions, penalties and\npunishments, ostracisms and taboos; unpopular proposals were consigned\nto Limbo, unpopular persons to Coventry. In all doings that allowed of\n\"sides\"--cricket, nuts-in-May, most ball games, tug of war, tick, Red\nIndians, clumps (what were they, these mysteries?)--the two leagues,\nMarcus told me, were arrayed in battle against each other.\n\nThe Church League was of course led by Joe Jones, seconded, until her\ndeparture for wider spheres of maleficence, by his devoted sister Lena.\nThen there were Kitty and Molly Prince, also fatherless. Their late\nparent was a \"Rural Dean,\" and they were thus our social \u00e9lite (Mr.\nJones, Senior, had been a mere butcher;--nay, pork-butcher even, said\nthe slanderers, with a fine feeling for social shades). Kitty and Molly\nwere dull, stupid girls. Molly was as sallow as a dried apple; Kitty\nlisped; they were always dressed in brown, with large brown velvet bows\nin their hats. There was a dim George Smith; a loud-voiced Ted King,\nJoe Jones' principal ally, with his two sisters Cissie and Trixie. I\nhate them vaguely to this day, that silly giggling pair with their\nsilly giggling names. I do not forget or forgive that they wore nice\nclothes, and mocked cruelly at mine. About this time, Aunt Jael had\nmy hair shorn--it was my one good feature, and Aunt Jael knew that I\nknew it, and decreed that I must \"mortify the flesh\" accordingly--and\nsent me out into a mocking world in school and Lawn, with my face\nfull of shame and my hair clipped to the head like a boy's. How those\nKing girls sneered and giggled, and how I loathed them. Finally there\nwas little John Blackmore, of whom it was whispered abroad that\n\"his father died before he was born.\" The import of this fact was\ndimly apprehended, but Lawn opinion was unanimous in regarding it as\nsomething unique and special, something sufficient to endow little\nJohnny Blackmore with an air of quite exotic velvet-trousered mystery.\nHe was a gentle, dark-eyed, olive-skinned child, and the only member\nof the Establishment party I could abide. He shared the fatherlessness\nwhich was common to his League--the Kings were an exception--and\nwhich probably accounted for their eminence in ill-behaviour. Another\ncoincidence was that all the members of the Church League, except\nGeorge Smith, lived on our side of the Lawn, i. e. the same side as my\nGrandmother's house. In defiance of Number Eight, Fort of Plymouth,\nhalting-place for heaven, they called it \"the Church side!\"\n\nThe leader of the Chapel League was Laurie Prideaux, whose father kept\nthe big grocer's shop in High Street; a tall, pretty, picture-book\nboy with golden curls, a Wesleyan Methodist, and I think the nicest\nof all the Lawn children, with whom his influence was second to Joe\nJones' only, and for good instead of evil. The power of one was because\nhe was liked, of the other because he was feared: those two forms\nof power that hold sway everywhere--Aunt Jael and Grandmother, Old\nTestament God and New Testament Christ; fear and love. If there was\nany weeping, Laurie was there to comfort it; any injustice, Laurie\nwould champion it. Against Joe Jones he was my rod and my staff. His\nsecond-in-command was Marcus, Marcus who hovered on the marge between\nBible Christianhood, which qualified him for admission to the Lawn, and\nPlymouth Brethrenism, which qualified him for admission to Heaven only.\nHe was a nice boy, Marcus, for all the uncertainty of his theological\nposition, and I remember him as one of the few bright faces of my\nearly life. The strength of Lawn Dissent lay in the unnumbered Boldero\nfamily, a seething brood of Congregationalists, who lived over the way\nin the corner house opposite Number Eight. Only five of them were of\nappropriate age to possess present membership of the Lawn--Sam, Dora,\nDaisy, Bill and Zo\u00eb--but on either side of the five stretched fading\nvistas of babes and grown-ups. Dora was clever, Daisy good-natured,\nfat, dull and bow-legged, Zo\u00eb fat only, Sam and Bill rough, stupid and\nfriendly. Finally there were Cyril and Eva Tompkins--twins; Baptists: a\nspiteful couple who vied with the Kings in mocking me.\n\nTo sum up. On the whole, despite Joe Jones, the boys were kinder than\nthe girls; a first impression which life, in the lump, has borne out;\nand on the whole, despite the Tompkinses, the Chapel League was the\nnicer of the two; the brainier also, despite the Boldero boys, and\nJohnny Blackmore, who was the shining intellect of the Establishment.\nThough I have no longer the faintest hostility to the Anglican\nCommunion, I find inside me a dim ineradicable notion of some moral\nsuperiority, some higher worth, however slight, which I concede to\nthe Nonconformists; and I trace it back to my first experience of the\ntwo. If I bow my head in reverent humility before the Dissenters of\nEngland, I know that the real reason is because Laurie and Marcus and\nthe happy Bolderos were such, while Joe and Lena and the Kings and the\nPrinces--Beware of Kings! Put not your trust in Princes!--were not.\n\nChurch League and Chapel League, and I could belong to neither! My\nfirst feeling should have been sorrow that among that score of young\nsouls there was not one single sure inheritor of glory; I fear it was\npride instead; in my heart I rejoiced as the Pharisee, that I was not\nas other children, and that in me alone had the light shined forth.\nYet at the same moment, parallel but contradictory, I found this\nquestion in my heart: why am I not as other children? Why cannot I\nmix with them as one of them, and belong to their Leagues and joys?\nAfter all, my right to belong to the Church League was about as good\nas Marcus' Chapel pretensions: had not Grandmother and Aunt Jael both\nbeen Churchwomen once? Or again, if Marcus, who was at least half a\nSaint, was allowed to belong to the Chapel League, then why not I, who\nwas only half a Saint more? I had for a moment a rebellious notion of\nforming a new League of my own, a Saints' League, a Plymouth League,\na League of the Elect; but reflection soon showed me that one member\nwas barely enough. Could I convert others though? The notion warmed\nmy heart, the more luxuriously because though at root ambitious, it\nseemed so virtuous and noble. Missionary zeal would further personal\nambition. In testifying to the Lord, I would raise up unto Him\nfollowers who should be _my_ followers too; forming at one and the same\ntime the Lord's League and _my_ League. There burned together in me for\na queer exalted moment the red flame of ambition and the pure white\nfire of faith; burning together in Mary as in Mahomet; as in the souls\nof the great captains of religion. The fires died down; till there\nburned within me just the candle flicker of this humble hope: that\nthe morrow's meeting would suffer me to join the Lawn at all, as the\nlowliest novice in whichever League would take me.\n\nNext day after tea, I watched from afar the deliberations of the\nassembly that was handling my fate.\n\nSome one shouted my name; I approached and appeared before the tribe.\nOn the wall that surmounted the mound of justice sat Joseph Jones,\nsurrounded by his earls and churls. I observed his pimples, his ginger\nhair, his fish-like bulging eyes.\n\n\"Come here. Stand straight. Look at me.\"\n\nI obeyed. He faced me. The tribe surrounded me.\n\n\"Your name?\"\n\n\"Mary Lee.\"\n\n\"You're allowed now to come out and play on the Lawn?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You can't just play and do as you like, you know. There are Laws of\nthe Lawn. And there are two Leagues, and you must belong to one of\nthem.\"\n\nThis sounded encouraging; he was not going to stand in my way after all.\n\n\"I know,\" I said. \"Which shall I belong to?\"\n\n\"We'll see. Let me see, which are you, Church or Chapel?\" He was too\ndull to conceal the wolf in the sheep-like blandness of his voice.\nWell, I would fight for my footing.\n\n\"Neither. You know that.\"\n\n\"Neither?\" incredulously. \"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"I belong to the Brethren, the Saints. That's neither Church nor\nChapel.\"\n\n\"Well then, you can't belong to the Church League or the Chapel League,\ncan you, if you aren't either? Of course you can't. We're _sorry_, but\nyou can't belong to the Lawn at all. Still\" (generously) \"we'll let you\nwalk about.\" He dismissed me with a nod. I did not move.\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Now shut up. No damned chatter. You should belong to a decent\nreligion.\"\n\n\"It is a decent religion,\" I cried. \"Don't you talk so; it is my\nGrandmother's. 'Tis as good as any of yours, and a lot better. And 'tis\nnot a good enough reason for keeping me out.\"\n\nThe Lord of the Lawn was not accustomed to being addressed thus. He\ndarkened--or rather flushed; gingerheads cannot darken.\n\n\"If you want another reason, 'tis because you are a dirty little\ntell-tale sneak.\"\n\n\"Hear, hear! Sneak, Sneak!\" Chorus of Kings and Princes.\n\n\"I'm _not_ a sneak. I'm _not_ a sneak, and I don't want to belong to\nyour miserable Lawn. I'm a Saint anyway, and better than you churches\nand chapels.\"\n\nI turned and moved away. \"Saint, Saint, look at the Saint! The sneaking\nSaint, the saintly sneak. The Brethering kid. Plymouth Brethering, good\nold Plymouth Rocks. Three cheers for the Plymouth Rocks!\" Church and\nDissent mingled in this hostile chorus that pursued me to our gate.\n\n\"Look at the corduroy skirt, he, he, he!--just like workman's\ntrousers,\" was the last thing I heard. My cheeks burned with rage and\nshame.\n\nI ran up to the attic to sob and mope in peace. I was Hagar once again,\nturned out into the wilderness alone. Every child's hand was against\nme. I sobbed away, until at last the luxury of extreme grief brought\nits comfort. Mine was the chief sorrow under the heavens, it was unique\nin its injustice; I was the unhappiest little girl in all the world. I\nregained a measure of happiness.\n\nAfter this experience, I went out on to the Lawn as little as possible;\nwhich achieved the result of Aunt Jael driving me there.\n\nI could take no part in games, but after a while I became a kind of\nfurtive hanger-on in the outskirts at the frequent \"Meetings\" of the\nLawn, at which the division into Leagues did not usually persist.\nI only dared approach the company when Joe Jones was absent, which,\nhowever, inclined to be more and more usual as he became absorbed in\ngay adult adventures in the world outside the Lawn gates. The moment\nJoe was gone, and Laurie Prideaux had stepped without question into\nthe shoes of leadership, the bullies who, under Joe's encouraging eye,\nwould have driven me off, were silent and left me alone, obeying with\nslavish care the whim of the new Autocrat. So I stood away, just a\nlittle outside the ring of children, and listened.\n\nUnder Laurie's influence, the meetings were more concerned with affairs\nof universal moment and abstract truth than with the intrigues and\nvendettas so dear to Joseph Jones. Is the moon bigger than the sun?\nHow far away are the stars? Does it really hurt the jelly-fish like\nthe big yellow ones you see at Ilfracombe and Croyde, if you cut them\nin two with your spade? Do fish feel pain? Is the donkey the same as\nan ass, or is ass the female of donkey? What is the earliest date\nin the year you can have raspberries in the garden, or thrush's--or\nblack-bird's--or cuckoo's eggs out in the country? What is the farthest\na cricket-ball has ever been thrown? and will there be a war between\nEngland and the French Empire? With any insoluble question, i. e. a\nquestion to which nobody brought an answer which the meeting regarded\nas final, the procedure adopted was for every one present to refer it\nto his or her father or mother, and to report the result at the next\nmeeting. Much valuable information was gleaned by this means. The final\ndecision was by a majority of votes. Then if five parents said the moon\nwas bigger than the sun, and only four that the sun was bigger than the\nmoon, then the moon _was_ bigger than the sun. Voting was by parents.\nThus the Bolderos counted as one vote only; which was not unjust, for\nthe brood, who were inclined, under Dora's orders, to stand or fall\ntogether, would otherwise have swamped the meetings; as indeed they\nfrequently did when the question was not one which had been referred\nback to parental omniscience.\n\nOne day the supreme problem was raised. Joe Jones was not present, but\nperhaps he had inspired the discussion. It came breathlessly, with\nthe swift tornado-strength of great ideas. Every one of us knew at\nonce that we were face to face with something bigger than we had ever\nencountered before. Into our camp of innocence it fell like a bursting\nbombshell, scattering wonder in all directions. Of the innocence I feel\npretty sure; I do not believe a single child knew.\n\n\"They are _born_, of course,\" said one, sagely.\n\n\"Yes; but _how_?\"\n\n\"Storks bring them,\" said little Ethel Prideaux. \"On my panorama, there\nis a picture of a big white stork carrying a baby in its beak, and it\nputs it down the chimney.\"\n\n\"Where does it get it?\" objected Marcus. \"Besides storks are only in\nHolland and places abroad; there aren't any left in England, and there\nare babies in England just the same.\"\n\n\"I think it has something to do with gooseberry bushes,\" said Trixie\nKing. \"I overheard my Auntie saying so.\"\n\n\"Well, we have nothing but flowers in our garden,\" said Billy Boldero,\n\"and there are twelve in our family, and no gooseberry bushes.\"\n\n\"It is neither storks nor gooseberries,\" said Dora Boldero, aged\nthirteen, importantly. \"These are only fairy tales for children. The\nreal reason\" (she lowered her voice impressively) \"is this. Doctors\nbring them. Whenever we have a baby born\" (at least an annual event\nin the Boldero m\u00e9nage) \"the doctor comes. He always brings with him a\nBlack Bag. _That's it!_\" (Sensation.)\n\nMarcus was the first to recover. Even Black Bag was inadequate as First\nCause.\n\n\"Yes, but where does he get the baby first, before he puts it in the\nbag to bring? He must get it somewhere.\"\n\n\"From the gooseberry bush, of course,\" said Trixie King, in a bold\neffort to recover her position. \"I expect there is a special garden\nbehind doctors' houses where they grow.\"\n\n\"But if there isn't?\" objected Marcus pitilessly. \"Doctor Le Mesurier\nhas no garden at all, neither has Doctor Hale.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Laurie Prideaux. \"And I don't believe the Black Bag story\none bit. Because if it were that, the doctor could take the bag\nanywhere, and give whoever he liked a baby, just whenever he liked. And\nhe can't, I know. Anybody can't have a baby just when they like. Mother\nsays Mrs. Pile at Number Three has wanted one for years. Besides, any\none can't have one. Only mothers have babies.\"\n\n\"_And_ fathers,\" said some one.\n\n\"Fathers and mothers together; there must be both. At least there\nalways _is_ both.\"\n\n\"Except--\" We all looked awkwardly at Johnny Blackmore, the posthumous\none. He flushed slightly under his olive skin.\n\n\"No, I had a father too; he _was_ my father, though he died before I\nwas born.\"\n\n\"Well, if your father can die before you are born, what makes him\nyour father? What does 'being your father' mean?\" We were getting to\nfundamentals.\n\n\"Can a mother die too before her baby is born?\"\n\nNobody could answer this. Somehow it _seemed_ more improbable. Besides,\nwe had no motherless counterpart of Johnny Blackmore to support the\nnotion.\n\n\"Whether they die or whether they don't,\" said Laurie, summing up, \"all\nthat we've found out so far is that there must be a father and there\nmust be a mother; a gentleman and a lady, that is, who are married.\nThey must be married.\"\n\n\"No, they needn't be,\" I cried eagerly. \"Sister Lucy Fry at our Meeting\nis not married, and she has a baby four months old!\"\n\nThe sensational character of my information allowed my first utterance\nin a Lawn assembly to pass unreproved. There was an impressed silence.\nEverybody waited for more.\n\n\"It is not often, I don't think,\" I went on. \"It was a mistake of some\nkind, and a sin too. Much prayer was offered up, and Aunt Jael nearly\nhad her turned out of fellowship. It is _wrong_ to have a baby if you\nare not married. Wrong, but not impossible.\"\n\n\"That's important,\" said Marcus, \"but we've really found nothing out.\nHow are they made? What makes them come?\"\n\n\"The Lord,\" said I, sententiously. This was a falling off.\n\n\"I know. But _how_?\"\n\nMarcus was final. \"This is a thing that has got to be asked at home.\nTomorrow evening at half-past-five you will all report what you have\nfound out. It is a thing we ought to know. We shall have to have\nchildren ourselves one day.\"\n\n\"I don't like to athk,\" simpered Kitty Prince. \"Mother'd not like me to\nI'm thure.\"\n\nPerhaps she really knew, though more likely vague instinct coloured her\nreluctance.\n\nIt was a reluctance I did not share. The meeting was about to disperse,\nand I was resolving in my mind the words I should use when asking my\nGrandmother, wondering what her answer might be, when \"There's Joe\ncoming in at the gate,\" was shouted, \"let's ask him.\"\n\nWe crowded round him as he approached.\n\n\"Well, what is it, kids?\" he said, in his royal cocksure way.\n\nLaurie told him. He smiled: an evil important smile.\n\n\"And nobody knows anything,\" concluded Laurie.\n\n\"Don't they?\" leered Joe, looking around to see that all the Lawn\nchildren were listening, and no one else. \"Don't they. _I_ know.\"\n\nHe told us. He told us with a detail that left no room for doubt and a\nfoulness that smote our cheeks with shame.\n\n\"It is not true.\" I kept whispering to myself. My cheeks burned, and I\nwas shaking all over. Against myself, I believed him. It was horrible\nenough to be true.\n\nHe gave us fatherhood as it appeared to him. When he came to the\nmother's sacrifice of pain, and desecrated it with filthy leering\nwords, I could bear it no longer, and eluding all attempts to stop me,\nI fled wildly into the house, and upstairs to my Grandmother.\n\nShe looked up from the Word, surprised in her calm fashion.\n\n\"What is it, my dear?\"\n\nI told her. \"O Grandmother, it is not as cruel as that, is it? It is\nnot true? Tell me it is not true!\"\n\n\"It is true, my dear.\"\n\n\"And does it hurt like that?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear.\"\n\n\"Why--why isn't there some easier way? So horrible the first part, and\nthen so cruel. It is wrong.\"\n\n\"It's the Lord's will, my dear. It always has been and always will be.\nMeanwhile, you are not to go on the Lawn again till I have spoken to\nyour Aunt. I must seek the Lord's guidance. Leave me to lay it before\nHim.\"\n\nThe look on Aunt Jael's face at supper-time soon banished the far\nterrors of motherhood: Grandmother had clearly told her all. It\nwas unjust, of course: it was no crime on my part to have heard\nsomething--and something true--to which I could not help listening,\nwhich I had not sought to hear, and which terrified me now that I had\nheard it. It was unjust that she was angry. But there 'twas.\n\nAll through supper she said nothing. I feared to receive her wrath, yet\nI could not bear that visit should be delayed till the morrow, which\nwould mean a sleepless night of visualizing. As we rose from our knees\nafter evening worship, Aunt Jael turned a grim eye on me and spoke.\n\n\"I shall write to Simeon Greeber tomorrow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII: I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE\n\n\nI knew what that meant. It had been hinted at on several occasions\nsince the birthday party. I was to go to Torribridge to live with Uncle\nSimeon.\n\nI disliked Uncle Simeon, and did not want to leave my Grandmother. On\nthe other hand I longed to see the world, and to get away from Aunt\nJael. I must show her how glad I was at the prospect.\n\n\"You mean you're going to write to him about my going to live there?\"\n\nI said it in a cool pleased fashion, then at once regretted I had\ndone so, for I knew Aunt Jael well enough to see that the pain the\npunishment she proposed would cause me was a more important thing than\nsaving me from baneful Lawn influence; if I showed her too plainly I\nwas glad to go to Torribridge, which on the whole I fancied I was, she\nmight cancel the plan without more ado.\n\nSo I repeated: \"You mean you're going to write to him about my going to\nlive there?\"--but this time my voice had a note of mournfulness; Aunt\nJael sat up and stared. She failed to see through me, however; could\nnot probe the depths of my cunning, as I the depths of her ill-will.\n\nGrandmother comforted me: \"'Twill be a change, my dear. Your Aunt and I\nthink 'twill be a good and useful change for you. Your Aunt Martha will\nteach you many new things. Don't 'ee be tearful, my child: the Lord\nwill watch over you.\"\n\nTwo days later Uncle Simeon arrived to take me. Pasty faced,\nwhite-livered, cringing little wretch, with his honeyed smile and\nhoney-coloured hair. He sniffed as always.\n\n\"Good day, dear Miss Vickary. Good morning, dear Mrs. Lee. You too,\ndear little one. One is well pleased to see all one's kinsfolk looking\nso well in mind and body, well pleased indeed! One scarce knows how to\nexpress oneself. But one can give thanks, ah yes, one can give thanks.\"\n\nWe sat down to dinner. Food punctuated but did not check his flow of\neloquence. He got the food on to his fork, but did not lift it. Instead\nhe ducked his head and snatched, tearing the food from the fork as a\nwolf warm flesh from a bone. His eyes glistened as Mrs. Cheese placed a\nsteaming mutton-pie before Aunt Jael.\n\n\"Your daughter, dear Mrs. Lee? Yes, dear Martha was well, when one left\nher this morning, and--D. V.--still is. She sends her fond greeting\nto you both. One took leave of her with a heavy heart, though 'tis\nonly for a day, for one's love is so jealous, one's absences so rare.\nOne took the eleven o'clock railway-train from Torribridge.... There\nwere two ladies in the compartment with one. One was glad, ay glad\nindeed, to observe that ere the train started, they both whipped out\ntheir Bibles. One entered into earnest conversation with them. One was\noverjoyed, if surprised, to find that, although they were Baptists,\nthey were good Christians.\"\n\n\"There are many such,\" interposed my Grandmother. \"Don't 'ee be narrow,\nSimeon Greeber.\"\n\n\"Maybe, maybe, dear Mrs. Lee. God gives grace in unlikely places.\nBe that as it may, however, at Instow both ladies got out, and a\ngentleman entered the carriage, a man of means from his appearance,\none would say. One remembered that he was but a sinner. One remembered\nthe heavenly injunction: In season and out of season. One spoke a\nquiet word to him as to the Gospel plan. One was polite, if earnest.\nAlas, the poor sinner answered roughly. The Devil spoke in him. He\nused an evil word one's modesty forbids one to repeat. But in the\nLord's service one must endure much. One suffered, but one forgave.\nTonight he will be remembered in one's prayers. One was pained, hurt,\nwounded, grieved--but angry,--no! Anger is not the sin which doth\nmost easily beset one.\" (What was? I wondered. Gluttony perhaps, I\nthought, as I watched his staccato snatches at a big second helping of\nthe mutton-pie.) \"One looked again at the face of the handsome sinner\nopposite. A voice spoke within one: 'Be not weary in well doing,' but\na second effort at godly conversation yielded, alas, no better result.\nOne had done one's duty, and for the rest of the journey one reflected\non the different Eternities facing the poor sinner's soul and one's\nown. The railway train reached Tawborough in the Lord's good time,\nand here one is, rejoiced to see all one's dear relatives ... rejoiced\nindeed....\"\n\nThe moment Mrs. Cheese had cleared away the table-cloth, Aunt Jael was\ncurt: \"To business, to business!\" And to me, \"You're not wanted. Make\nyourself scarce.\"\n\nI went upstairs to the spare bedroom, meaning to sit on a settee by the\nwindow and daydream away the time. I opened the window. The dining-room\ndownstairs must have been open too, for I could hear Aunt Jael's voice\nbooming away. \"Eight shillings\" and \"Child\" I heard. I should never\nhave tried to overhear, but now I found I could hear without trying--by\nthe window here, whither I had come quite by accident. I could not\nhelp hearing if I tried--perhaps I had been _led_ to the window-seat\nby the Lord, perhaps it was providential, perhaps I _ought_ to listen.\nBesides, Mrs. Cheese did it: I caught her red-handed listening outside\nthe door one day when Aunt Jael and Grandmother were discussing a\nrise in her wages. And eavesdropping was not a _sin_. There was no\ncommandment, \"Thou shalt not eavesdrop\"--Our Lord had never forbidden\nit--there was nothing in the Word against it. And what harm would be\ndone? As they were discussing my future, I should know soon enough in\nany case what they decided, so why not know at once?... No deceivers in\nthe world are so easily deceived as self-deceivers. I leaned right out\nof the window.\n\n\"Agreed then, Simeon Greeber. You will take her for twelve months,\ntreat her as your own boy, and have the same lessons taught her by\nMartha. And eight shillings a week for the board.\"\n\n\"Eight shillings?\" queried a treacly voice, yet pained as well as\ntreacly. \"_Eight_ shillings?\" It is impossible to describe the sweet\nsad stress he laid on the numeral, or the wealth of poignant sentiment\nthat stress conveyed. Not of greed or graspingness, oh dear no! Rather\nof pained sorrow at the greed and graspingness of Aunt Jael. \"Eight?\nOne fears 'twill be difficult. If it were _nine_, one might hope, one\nmight struggle, one might endeavour--\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense. A child of nine years old, eating little; and your\ntable don't _groan_ with good things. Eight is enough and to spare.\nNot one ha'penny-piece more. Yea or nay?\"\n\nA pause, ere Christian meekness gave in to unchristian ultimatum.\n\n\"Well then, dear Miss Vickary, one will try, one will hope--\"\n\n\"Call the child,\" she cut him short.\n\nI fled from the window guiltily. \"Yes, Grandmother, I'm coming,\" I\ncalled back.\n\nUncle Simeon stayed the night: my last at Tawborough. Grandmother was\nkind. I did not know how I loved her till I felt I was going to lose\nher. This was my first big step in life. I was losing my old moorings,\nand sailing off to a new world. My mouth was dry, as it is when the\nheart is sick and apprehensive. Aunt Jael was adamant against my\nspending even occasional Lord's Days at Tawborough. I was to visit Bear\nLawn but once during the year, though 'twas but nine miles away. There\nwas no appeal against this: Aunt Jael had decided it.\n\nGrandmother came to my bedroom. We read the twenty-third psalm\ntogether. Then she prayed for me, and we sang an old hymn together. At\n\"Good-night, my dearie\" I clung to her more than usual.\n\n\"There's only you in the world that really likes me.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, there is your good aunt. And there is God. Don't 'ee say\nnobody loves you when _He_ is there. Don't 'ee think all the time of\nyourself. Think of making others happy. There'll be your little cousin\nAlbert to befriend. Your Aunt Martha is kind, and will treat you well.\nThat is why I'm letting 'ee go. Your Uncle Simeon too--\"\n\n\"_He's_ not kind,\" daringly.\n\n\"Hush, my dear, don't 'ee say so. He's a godly man, and fears the Lord\nexceedingly. He will treat you in a Christian way. And God will always\nbe near you. Pray to Him every night, read in His word, sing to Him a\njoyful song of praise. Never forget that threefold duty and joy. Never\nforget, my dear. You will promise your Grandmother?\"\n\n\"Yes, Grandmother, but 'twill be lonely.\"\n\n\"Your mother--my little Rachel--had worse trials than you, please God,\nwill ever know; yet she praised God always. Will you be brave like her?\"\n\n\"Yes, Grandmother,\" huskily, and I kissed her twice.\n\nNext day, after an early dinner, we left Bear Lawn. I had a grim\ngodspeed from the old armchair.\n\n\"No highty-tighty, no monkey tricks, no stubborn ways. Fear the Lord\nat all times,\"--and a swift formal peck which was not swift enough to\nconceal perhaps a faint tinge of regret.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe left by rail. Uncle Simeon read his Bible the whole way to\nTorribridge, and never spoke a word. It was only my second journey by\nrailway, and I had enough to interest me in looking out of the window.\nThe country-side was bright with spring. Little did I foresee the\ndifferent circumstances of my return journey.\n\nI well remember our arrival. There was a tea-supper on the table, so\nmeagre that my heart sank at the outset. There was my Aunt Martha.\nShe seemed like a weak tired edition of my Grandmother. She looked\nmiserable and underfed; I soon came to know that she was both. I\nregarded Albert, a dull heavy-faced boy with a big mouth and thick lips.\n\nThe latter soon opened. \"Don't stare, _you_! Father, she's staring at\nme.\"\n\n\"It's not true. I'm not staring. I was just looking at him.\"\n\n\"Come, there, no answerings back in this house, learn that once for\nall.\" There was still a good deal of honey about Uncle Simeon's, still\nsmall voice, but it was flavoured with aloes now and other bitter\nthings, whose presence he had kept hidden at Bear Lawn. The honeyed\nwhine was now very near a snarl, as he showed his shiny white teeth\nand repeated, \"Once for all.\" The Tawborough mask was being put aside\nalready.\n\nA clock outside struck the hour. I looked at the time-piece, which\nregistered eight o'clock. So did he.\n\n\"She knows her bedroom, Martha? Yes. At eight she goes to bed, and\neight in the morning we take our humble breakfast. Come now, to bed!\"\n\nI was faced with the Good-night difficulty. Albert I ignored, and\nhe me. Aunt Martha was plain sailing. She looked kind, if weak and\nblurred. We kissed each other listlessly on the cheek. But from Uncle\nSimeon I shrank instinctively as I came near him. He saw my feelings,\nI saw he hated me for them, he saw that I felt his hate. That refusal\nto kiss was a silent declaration of inevitable war.\n\nHe took the offensive that very night, as the clock hands showed next\nmorning.\n\nI went upstairs with my candle, and sat down on a chair in the middle\nof the room. There was an unused smell about everything which seemed to\nadd to my homesickness and sense of lost bearings. Bear Lawn had never\nbeen a gay and festive place, but it was home, and here in the dreary\nroom the first-night-away-from-home feeling overcame me badly with all\nits disconsolate accompaniments of damp eyes and dry throat. The old\ninjustice burned in my heart, the old bitterness came back. Why had I\nhad to leave my Grandmother, the only one in the world who cared for\nme? Why was there nobody who loved me even more than that, in whose\nbosom I could hide my face and cry, whose love to me was wonderful? Why\nhad the Lord left me no Mother who would have loved me best of all?\nThe same old questions reduced me to the same old tears ... I pulled\nmyself together and remembered my three-fold duty: to say my prayers,\nto read my psalm, to sing my hymn. I decided, with a true Saint's whim,\nto choose my nightly psalm by opening my Bible at random--I could gauge\nthe whereabouts of the Psalms well enough, if only by the used look\non the edge--and reading always the first psalm that caught my eye.\nWhether the Lord guided me to a choice of His own, or whether it was\nthat my Bible opened naturally at so familiar a place, I do not know:\nanyway, there before me was the dirty, well-loved, well-thumbed page\n(page 537 I remember), and in the middle of it, plastered around with\naffectionate red crayon, stood my favourite 137th Psalm. I read aloud:\n\n_By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we\nremembered Zion._\n\nAt once the appropriateness of the words came to me. Never had I felt\ntill now what I had been told a hundred times, that the Bible was\nwritten for _me_. Here was a psalm which expressed my identical sorrow:\n\n\n    _We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof._\n    _For there they that carried us away captive required of us\n    a song; and they that wasted as required of us mirth, saying,_\n    _Sing us one of the songs of Zion._\n\n    _How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?_\n\n\nI finished the psalm and then tried to sing my hymn as I had promised\nmy Grandmother, but I could not. My heart and my voice failed me: _How\ncould I sing the Lord's song in a strange land?_\n\nI awoke next morning, refreshed, to see the bright sun shining in. I\ndid not know the time, as nobody had called me, and I had no watch.\nJust as I had finished dressing, a clock outside struck, the same\nclock as the night before. I counted; one, two, three, four, five,\nsix, seven--on the eighth stroke I went downstairs. I'll be punctual,\nI said to myself. Uncle Simeon, Aunt Martha and Albert were already at\nthe table. I looked at the timepiece; it marked nearly a quarter after\nthe hour! Yet last evening it had tallied with the chime outside. Aunt\nMartha and I exchanged a brief matutinal peck; I found it easier, after\nthe first effort the night before, to keep away from Uncle Simeon.\n\"Good morning, Uncle,\" was all I said.\n\n\"Good morning,\" he replied, with a new touch of spite and venom in his\nwhispering honeyed voice. \"Not a good start, young woman. One said\neight punctual for breakfast. 'Tis now fourteen minutes past.\"\n\n\"I came down the second the clock outside struck the hour. Last night\nit was the same time exactly. One of them must have gone wrong all of a\nsudden, or been altered perhaps.\"\n\n\"Altered? So you hint that this clock has been deliberately changed?\"\n(I never thought of this till he suggested it, but then I knew; his\nshifty eyes betrayed him.) \"One is not used to that sort of hint, and\none has a way of dealing with it, a certain way.\"\n\nI began my bowl of porridge. Meanwhile Uncle Simeon and Albert were\nbeginning their eggs, and as soon as I had emptied my porringer, I\nlooked around for mine. There was no egg within sight. I waited; none\nappeared. I plucked up my courage to ask.\n\n\"When is my egg coming, Aunt Martha?\" There was a dead silence. Aunt\nMartha went red in the face, and looked uncomfortable. Uncle Simeon\nbroke the silence. He looked hard at me, though never into my eyes.\n\n\"When is your egg coming? It is _not_ coming. In one's house little\ngirls are not pampered. They do not live on rich, unhealthy foods, nor\nwear sumptuous apparel. They do not lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch\nthemselves upon their couches until a late hour, nor eat the lambs out\nof the flock, nor the calves out of the midst of the stall. They do not\nlive in kings' houses; they live at Number One the Quay, Torribridge;\nunder this Christian, if humble, roof. They eat humble Christian fare,\nand thank our Lord for it in a humble Christian way. If a fine generous\nbowl of porridge does not suffice, there is always plenty of good,\nplain bread. Your Aunt will give you as many crusts as you can wisely\neat.\"\n\nSo I was to be starved, and preached at in my starvation! He was going\nto make sure of his eight shillings' worth. I felt red with anger, but\nheld my tongue, schooled to silence by ten years of Aunt Jael. Aunt\nMartha looked ashamed of his meanness, but was far too weak to fight\nit. What will she ever had was stamped out of her on her wedding-day,\npoor wretch. Albert, dull, greedy little beast, gloated coarsely over\nmy discomfiture, his tongue (all yellow with egg) hanging out of his\nmouth. Uncle Simeon tried to disguise his triumph under his usual\nloathsome mask of meekness, or perhaps he felt that he had gone too far\ntoo soon.\n\n\"Come, come! One is forgiving, one can be generous, merciful,\" and\nhanded me the little top of his egg slit off by his breakfast knife.\n\nThis was adding insult to injury. Tears of anger stood in my eyes, but\nI managed to get out a calm \"No, thank you,\" which enabled him to write\nto my Grandmother, I afterwards found, that \"the little one refuses\neven part of an egg for her breakfast.\"\n\nAfter breakfast came prayers. He whined where Aunt Jael thundered.\nThen came lessons with Albert and Aunt Martha. The former was stupid\nto a degree; the latter was very interesting to me, after my years\nof Miss Glory, especially in the French, to which I took at once.\nDinner consisted of an interminable grace, three times as long as\nGrandmother's longest, and a tiny portion of hash. For \"afters\" there\nwas a roly-poly pudding, quite plain, with no lovely hot jam worked\nin between the folds. Uncle Simeon and Albert had cold raspberry\njam with theirs, out of a jar on the table. Aunt Martha and I did\nnot. Manifestly the womenfolk at Number One the Quay did not live in\nKings' houses, if the males did. Uncle Simeon was the King and Albert\nthe King's son. My slice, the nasty dry bit at the end, was not four\nmouthfuls. He served everything.\n\nAfter dinner Albert and I were sent out for a walk together.\n\n\"Where are we going to?\" I asked.\n\n\"Where I like,\" was the reply, in a sulky voice, ruder than he dared\nuse before his father. \"And look here you, learn at the start, when you\ngo walks with me you'll do what I tell you. And if you see me doing\naught as I choose to, and there's any sneaking--I've got a fist you\nknow.\"\n\nThe little brute lowered. I wondered what the dark things he hinted\nat might be; pitch-and-toss with boon companions of a like age, I\nafterwards discovered. Anyway, his hand too was against me: I was\na young Hagar. For tea I had a bit of plain bread and a mug of\nhot milk and water, though Uncle Simeon and Albert had butter and\nwhortleberry jam with their bread, and tea to drink. Afterwards I\nworked at the morning's lessons, sums and grammar and _je donne, tu\ndonnes, il donne_. Then knitting--grey woollen socks for Brethren\nmissionaries--evening prayers--my own bedside devotions--and bed.\n\nAll days were much like the first one, when not worse. It was the\nmost miserable period of my life. Soon the daily round at Bear Lawn\nbecame almost cheerful in my memory. I was wretchedly underfed; though\nI sometimes lost appetite, and could not even eat the scanty fare he\nallowed me. When I left food on my plate, unlike Aunt Jael he did not\nforce me. Rather he made it a good excuse for saying I had more to\neat than I needed. My morning porridge was what I liked best, and one\nday I said so. \"Ah, gluttony!\" he cried, and snatched my porringer,\npouring off the milk and scraping the brown sugar on to his own plate;\n\"Whosoever lusteth after her victuals, the same is lost. Ah, to make\none's belly one's God, 'tis a sin before the Most High!\"\n\nA starvation day in the attic was a favourite punishment, as it\ncombined economy with cruelty. At times I should have fainted away\nhalf-famished but for what Aunt Martha privily conveyed me.\n\nThree evil passions, I soon found, held pride of place in Uncle Simeon;\nmeanness, greed and cruelty. Sometimes, if at a meal-time Aunt Martha\nwent into the kitchen for a moment, he would get up with a cat-like\nspeed, scrape all the butter off her slice of bread-and-butter, and\nspread it on his own piece. Aunt Martha said nothing, to such depths of\nfear and obedience can women sink; though she flushed the first time\nshe saw that _I_ saw this husbandly deed. He was too mean to keep a\nservant; helped once a week by a charwoman, a tall funereal Exclusive\nSister named Miss Woe. Aunt Martha did all the work of a house twice\nthe size of Bear Lawn.\n\nCruelty came nearest to his heart. He flogged me brutally. The first\ntime the trouble began over a letter, a few days only after I arrived\nat Torribridge. He came into the dining-room, sniffing spitefully. I\nknew something was afoot by the look of mean anticipated triumph in his\neyes. He held out a letter for my inspection, placing his thumb over\nthe name of the person to whom it was addressed. I could read \"1, The\nQuay, Torribridge\"; the handwriting was my Grandmother's.\n\n\"_'Tis_ a letter from my Grandmother,\" I cried, \"a letter for me.\"\n\n\"A letter from your dear Grannie, true, true; but who said it was for\nyou? Who said that? ha! ha!\"\n\n\"It is, I know it is. Give it me, please.\"\n\nSniffing and sneering, he handed it across. There was \"Miss Mary Lee\"\ntrue enough; but the envelope had been opened.\n\n\"_'Tis_ mine then; who opened it?\"\n\n\"Who opened it? One who will open every letter that comes if one\nchooses, in accordance with your dear Great-Aunt's wishes.\"\n\n\"It's not true. I'm ten years old. Can't I open my own letters from my\nown Grandmother? She's my only friend in the world. It's not true.\"\n\n\"Have a care what you say, young miss, have a care. There is another\nlittle friend for you in the drawing-room. You shall be introduced at\nonce.\"\n\nI followed him upstairs, rabbit-like, not knowing what to expect. He\nlocked the door. \"Here is the Little Friend,\" he said, fetching from a\ncorner a ribbed yellow cane. He gave me a cruel thrashing, clawing my\nleft shoulder and whirling me round and round. The room was enormous;\na spacious thrashing place. He hurt me as much as Aunt Jael on a\nfield-day with the ship's rope, but I bawled less; no pain could draw\nfrom me the shrieks I knew he longed to hear.\n\nNever more than four or five days passed without his thrashing me. I\ncould review impartially the modes and methods of the two tyrants I\nknew: Aunt Jael with her stout thorned stick, Uncle Simeon with his\nlithe ribbed cane. Aunt Jael dealt hard brutal blows, Uncle Simeon sly\nmean strokes. She hit and banged and bruised. He swished and stung\nand cut. Hers was the Thud and his the Whirr. Both of them would have\nbeen prosecuted nowadays; there was no N.S.P.C.C. then to violate the\nsacred right of the individual to maltreat his human chattels. Both\nGreat-Aunt and Uncle always left me bruised, and sometimes-bleeding.\nYet of the two I dreaded his canings more; because he seemed so much\nthe viler. Not that the dust of the Torribridge beatings formed as\nit were a halo round the Tawborough ones, not that Aunt Jael's grim\nmasterpieces were becoming a winsome memory, not that a safe distance\nlent any enchantment to my mental view of her strong right arm. But\nwith a child's instinctive perspicuity, I felt, though I could not\nhave put my feelings into words, that there was some notion with my\nGreat-Aunt beyond mere brutality; some sense of duty, of loyalty to her\nown Draconian creed. Her Proverbs counselled her thus. Chasten thy son\nwhile there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying--little\nshe spared for mine;--I found it needed loud houseful of crying for\nbriefest moment of sparing. He that spareth his rod hateth his son, but\nhe that loveth him chasteneth him betimes--then indeed was her love for\nme exceeding great, out-measuring far the love of Paris for Helen for\nwhose sake terrific war was made and Ilion's plains shook with thunder\nof armed hosts and Troy town fell, or King Solomon's for his Beloved\nin the garden of lilies and pomegranates. She thought she was doing her\nduty.\n\nI knew that Uncle Simeon had no such excuse, and that he was something\nmuch worse than Aunt Jael: a coward. He was craven, creeping, caddish.\nHe liked to flog me because I was weak and small and defenceless. His\npale face sweated, his eyes lit up with a loathsome triumph, his lips\nwere wet with joy. His cold clammy hands--like wet claws--gripped my\nshoulder. As evil breeds always evil, his hate bred hate in me: a\nphysical, unhealthy hate I feel to this day, though he is long since\ngone to his judgment.\n\nI had no friend, no affection, to protect me from this creature or\ncompensate me for his presence. Aunt Martha, in whom her mother's\ngentleness ran to feebleness, was sometimes petulant, often kind (if\nshe dared), and always null. With Albert, except on walks, I had little\nto do. Sometimes he bullied me, or spat or cursed at me, when there was\nnobody about. At times he was bearable, because too idle to be anything\nelse. I missed my Grandmother terribly, whom I saw through this dark\natmosphere as a very angel of kindness.\n\nLife was even now more monotonous than at Bear Lawn, except for the\ndaily walks: there were no changes, no variety, no visitors. Once\nindeed Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, who had been ministering on Lord's\nDay to the Torribridge Exclusive Saints, and had missed the last\nconveyance back to Tawborough, was reluctantly put up for the night\nby Uncle Simeon. The ill-concealed tortures the latter endured at\nbeholding the egg and bacon Aunt Martha had the temerity to put before\nMr. Nicodemus for his breakfast, was a delight that stands fresh in my\nmemory today.\n\nOn Sundays the week's monotony was hardly broken by the Meeting, a\ndull funereal affair, with none of the godly enthusiasm of our Great\nMeeting. Some ten dull or consumptive-looking creatures attended. Uncle\nSimeon was the one High Priest: he did fifty per cent of the praying,\nseventy-five per cent of the exposition, chose and called out almost\nall the hymns, and always took and \"apportioned\" the offertory. Nobody\nelse counted for anything. I can just recall one Brother Atonement\nGelder, who sniffled richly throughout the service in away that\nreminded me of oysters. I see, vaguely, a Brother Berry; and, more\nvaguely, a Brother Smith. They are shadows; the Meeting never filled\na place in my life as at Tawborough. I remember more clearly Uncle\nSimeon's long sticky half-whispered supplications to the Lord, and one\nparticular hymn we droned out every Lord's Day:\n\n\n    _Come to the ark! come to the ark!_\n        Oh come, oh come away!\n    The pestilence walks forth by night\n        The arrow flies by day.\n\n    _Come to the ark!_ the waters rise,\n        The seas their billows rear:\n    While darkness gathers o'er the skies\n        Behold a refuge near.\n\n    _Come to the ark!_ all--all that weep\n        Beneath the sense of sin;\n    Without, deep calleth unto deep,\n        But all is peace within.\n\n    _Come to the ark!_ ere yet the flood\n        Your lingering steps oppose!\n    Come, for the door which open stood,\n        Is now about to close.\n\n\nMost of the hymns were in the old London Hymn Book we used at\nTawborough, so I could join in the singing from the very first. It\npained me to hear the thin peevish rendering the Torribridge Exclusives\ngave of _He sitteth o'er the water-floods_, or their pale piping of\nBrother Briggs' stentorian favourite _I hear the Accuser Roar_. Aunt\nMartha and I squeaked feebly, Brother Atonement Gelder sniffled in\ntune, and Uncle Simeon whispered the words to himself with his eye\nin godly thankfulness turned heavenward. We stood up for the hymns;\nit is the only Meeting--but one--at which I have known this done. We\nworshipped in a dark stuffy little room behind a baker's shop. Aunt\nMartha scarcely spoke to the other Saints or they to her.\n\nMy one idea was to get back to Bear Lawn. Aunt Jael said I was\nto live here for at least one year, and for three if it proved\nsatisfactory--satisfactory to her. I was to have one holiday in\nTawborough each year; but not till the first year was out. Grandmother\nhad said she would come over sometimes; I knew that Uncle Simeon was\nnot eager to have her and would find excuses for delaying her visits.\nCould I abide it for a year? Fear and ill-usage and hunger were\nworrying me into a state of all-the-time nervousness and wretchedness\nbeyond what I had ever experienced. How could I tell Grandmother this,\nand how much I wanted to come back to her? He read all my letters, and\nI knew she would disapprove if I tried to write without his knowing.\nWhat should I do? Counting the days and crossing them off each night\non the wall-almanac in my bedroom might help to make them pass more\nquickly.\n\nAfter all Aunt Jael was no magnet drawing me back to Tawborough. If\nlife was worse here with him, it was bad enough there with her. Life\nwas a wretched business altogether. Still, Uncle Simeon was worse than\nAunt Jael, and if the walks and fresh air I got here compensated for\nthe better food at Bear Lawn, my Grandmother weighed down the balance\noverwhelmingly in favour of the latter. I _must_ get back. But how? I\nwas ignorant and inexperienced beyond belief. I first thought of just\nleaving the house one day, and running back to Tawborough. I could\nmanage the nine miles from one door to the other,--but the doors! I\nalready felt Uncle Simeon's claws dragging me in as I sought to cross\nhis threshold, and Aunt Jael's heavy hand on my shoulder at the other\nend if ever I should reach it. If I dared to run away, even if not sent\nback to worse days here, I could see a bad time of punishment and wrath\nahead at Bear Lawn. It would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the\nfire, bandying myself between the thorned stick and the ribbed cane,\nescaping from unhappiness to unhappiness. It was hell here, and near it\nthere--hell everywhere. If my face was as disagreeable as my heart was\nbitter and wretched, I must have looked a dismal little fright. Albert\nassured me that I did.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV: I BECOME CURIOUS\n\n\nUncle Simeon did not improve on closer acquaintance; nor on closer\nreflection did my chance of foregoing that acquaintance improve. Just\nas he abandoned all pretence of being kind and affable, so I began to\nabandon all hope of getting back to Tawborough for the present. How\ncould I escape him? gave place to: How could I harm him?\n\nI soon came to see that he was in constant fear of something. Slight\nsounds and movements would make him start. Sometimes when we were\ntalking he would slink away suddenly as though to reassure himself that\nall was well in some other part of the house. Could I somehow expose\nhim, triumph over him?\n\nIn those days Torribridge Quay, though much decayed, was far livelier\nthan it is today; the river-side was dark with masts, and you could\nstill see the serried line of brown sails: trading ships that plied the\nroutes to the Indies and the two Americas. Number One was a substantial\nsquare-looking house hard by the bridge. It was dark, darker even than\nNo. 8 Bear Lawn and very much bigger. The house had belonged to Uncle\nSimeon's brother, and came to him when the brother died. On the ground\nfloor were three big living rooms--in only one of which we lived.\nThe first floor contained a gloomy sort of drawing-room of enormous\ndimensions, known to me as the thrashing-room, and five bedrooms.\nThree of these were large, one being occupied by Uncle Simeon and Aunt\nMartha, and the other two permanently untenanted. Two smaller bedrooms\nwere used respectively by Albert and myself. Two narrow staircases led\nto the garrets, the front one to \"my\" attic (I call it such because\nI was locked therein not less than three times a week), a small bare\napartment with one window, so high in the wall that I could barely see\nout of it even when standing on tip-toe; the back one to Uncle Simeon's\n\"study.\" Here he concocted potions if any of us were ill, and here for\nlong hours at a stretch he studied the Word of God. Sometimes he spent\nwhole days there, descending only for meals. This back staircase to\nthe second storey was from the first forbidden to me, forbidden in so\nmarked and threatening a manner as to arouse my curiosity. It was on my\nsecond or third day that he found me loitering about near the foot of\nit. He came upon me suddenly in his carpet-slipper way. I started. He\nstarted too.\n\n\"_If_ one were to find you where one forbids you to go\"--he looked\nexpressively up the narrow staircase--\"_if_--well, one thinks it would\nbe better not.\"\n\nHis words had, of course, the opposite effect to that he intended. I\ndetermined to risk a rush up this staircase. There were difficulties.\nI was never alone in the house, and the creaky uncarpeted floor would\nbe sure to give me away. My strong impulse towards obedience, whether\nthe fruits of a nine-year-long r\u00e9gime of thorned stick, or of natural\ninstinct, or both, also counselled leaving well alone. Again, fear was\na deterrent, especially when I found that he was watching me; though\nthis stimulated curiosity as well as fear. For some days the battle,\nCuriosity versus Fear, raged within me: a passion of curiosity as\nto the mystery of the forbidden room, a lively sense of what Uncle\nSimeon's mood and methods would be like if he caught me there.\n\nOne day I plucked up courage for an attempt. I took off my shoes and\ntip-toed upstairs. The old stairs creaked villainously. To every creak\ncorresponded a twinge of fear in my heart; I waited each time to see if\nanything had been heard. At last I reached the top in safety. The key\nwas in the lock inside the door, so I could see nothing. It was some\nseconds before I realized the fact that the key was inside proved that\nUncle Simeon was probably there! For a moment I stood petrified with\nfear. As he did not seem to have heard me, however, a swift descent was\nmy best policy.\n\nIt was some days before I recovered enough spirit to make a second\nattempt: one afternoon, after tea, when Uncle Simeon was out. This time\nthere was no key in the door, but it was too dark to see much. All I\ncould make out was a big square box, painted dark green, straight ahead\nof the key-hole--a safe, though I did not know it--and, by peering\nup, a dark thing which looked like a big hole in the top of the wall.\nThis was disappointing; next day I seized an opportunity of going up\nearlier. I could see the big green box quite clearly, and could confirm\nmy idea that the black thing was a large square hole in the wall. There\nwas nothing more to be seen, and I returned for a cautious descent. But\nmy feet refused to move.\n\nThere at the foot of the narrow staircase was the white leering face. I\nwas caught, without escape or excuse.\n\nI stood still with fright, waiting for him to say something, to come up\nto the little landing on which I stood, to touch me, maul me, strike\nme. He slunk up the stairs. While he came along, smiling, smiling, I\nstood numbed and helpless. We were the cowering hypnotized rabbit and\nthe sure triumphant serpent. But no, as he came nearer I saw that his\nface bespoke anything but triumph. There was the same fear and anxiety\nI had noticed on the first day, and in addition a queerer look I seemed\nto remember in some more poignant though less definite way. That\nhalf-hunted half-hunter look, sneer of triumph distorted by fear, what\nwas it? What string of my memory did it touch? As he reached the top I\nsaw he was sweating with fright, and his fear assuaged mine. I was by\nnow excited rather than frightened, and puzzled even more. He peered\ninto my face. It was an unpleasant moment, quite alone with him on that\ntiny lonely landing at the top of the house. I feared I did not know\nwhat. He clawed my shoulder.\n\n\"Trapped, young miss, trapped. One will bear with much, but with\ndisobedience never\" (a sniff). \"If this should happen again,--but ha!\nha! one has something, something very sure, that will prevent that.\nSomething that stings and cuts and curls, ha! ha! Something worse than\none's poor mere cane.\"\n\n\"What?\" I said faintly.\n\n\"A whip,\" he whispered. As my fear grew, so his lessened. Then the\nqueer unremembered look came to his face again, and he changed his tone\ncompletely. His grasp of my shoulder was transformed from a menace into\na coax.\n\n\"Well, well, we will say no more about it, we will say no more about.\n_We_,\" he repeated meaningly. (With anybody else I should not have\nnoticed the word, which fell strangely from his lips. \"_One_ will say\nno more,\" was his natural phrase.) \"If you hold your tongue and don't\ntell your Aunt Martha I found you here--there'll be no flogging.\" It\nwas a tacit pact. He descended the staircase, and I followed him.\n\nI thought perhaps I might learn something by pumping Albert.\n\n\"What is there in your father's study?\" I asked him casually on a walk.\n\n\"Oh, some old bottles and books; nothing much, father lets me go in\nsometimes, but there's nothing special to see.\"\n\nThis was a genuinely casual reply. It puzzled me. If the room was so\nmysterious, why did Uncle Simeon take Albert there, yet forbid me\nentrance with such obvious fear? \"He thinks I'm sharper,\" I flattered\nmyself. This was true, but it explained very little. My curiosity grew.\nI rehearsed every detail: the green box, the hole in the wall, Uncle\nSimeon's original veto, and his extreme fear the day he caught me.\n\nAnd that look? Where had I seen it? I racked my brains without success.\nThen one night in bed, with a mad suddenness it flashed into my mind\nas these things do. It was the self-same look I had noticed at Bear\nLawn on Aunt Jael's seventieth birthday when we were talking about\nhis brother and how he died and I had said artlessly: \"Perhaps it was\nPoison?\" The expression on his face that day was the same as when he\nclutched me on the staircase.\n\nThe dead brother was part of the same mystery as the attic.\n\nWild ideas coursed through my head. The so-called study was one vast\npoison-den. The dead brother's skeleton was lying there, the bones were\nstrewn about the floor. Or he had been pushed through the strange black\nhole in the wall--where did that hole lead to? or his body had been\nsquashed into the green box.\n\nI resolved to raise the poison topic in front of him, and to watch the\neffect. I would mention it as though quite by accident, and look as\nartless as I could. Necessity which sharpens all things, had equipped\nme with a special cunning to achieve the chief aim of my existence: the\nsmallest possible number of beatings. But all my cunning never reduced\nthe least little bit in the world my extreme timidity. Thus while I\nwas quite equal to preparing beforehand a seemingly offhand question\nfor Uncle Simeon as to Poison, I quailed at the thought of actually\nputting it. I simply dared not talk to him direct, nor should I be able\nto look at him so closely if I did. I decided to introduce the topic\nto Aunt Martha one day when he should also be present. Should I begin\ntalking about the dead brother, or more specifically about poisoning?\nThe latter was more difficult to introduce, but a more crucial test.\nHow could I begin a conversation about poison? I prepared a hundred\nopenings, none of which seemed natural. As usual the opportunity came\nunexpectedly. Thanks to my scheming I was not quite unprepared.\n\nOne evening Uncle Simeon was sitting at the dining-room table reading\nthe Word, while Aunt Martha was discoursing to me on God's Plan of\nSalvation, exhorting me to repentance while it was not yet too late.\n\"Ah, how great is the likelihood of hell for every one of us! For you,\nmy child, it is woefully great. You, who have been brought up in the\nglory of the Light, who have communed from your earliest days with the\nSaints--\"\n\n\"The Saints, my dear?\" sniffed Uncle Simeon, \"one would hardly say\n_the_ Saints. To be sure there are many true and earnest believers\nlike your dear mother and dear Miss Vickary amongst them; yet the Open\nBrethren are for the most part but weak vessels. Only we of the Inner\nFlock are truly entitled to be called _the_ Brethren, _the_ Saints. But\nproceed, my dear.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, though your uncle is of course right, none will deny\nthat you have had more light shed upon your path than many poor\nlittle children. Think of the little black children out in Africa and\nIndia, think even of the little ones in England who have Methodist or\nChurchgoing or Romanish fathers and mothers. Unless you are saved, what\nwill you do if the Lord takes you suddenly? Are you ready to face Him?\nAre you ready to die? There are many, you know, whom the Lord calls\naway very, very suddenly. Today they are, tomorrow they are not. One\nmoment healthy and strong, the next white and stark. The Lord takes\nthem in an instant--\"\n\n\"Like Uncle Simeon's brother,\" I broke in. \"Didn't the Lord take him\nvery suddenly?\"\n\nI managed to keep my voice steady and to watch him while pretending I\nwas not. He tried to pretend he was not watching me. Whether I betrayed\nmy excitement I do not know. _He_ was certainly uneasy.\n\n\"Yes, my child, the Lord took him in a moment. It was never known\nof what disease he went.\" She spoke in her usual lifeless way. She\nsuspected nothing.\n\n\"Perhaps his heart?\" I said learnedly. It was a favourite ailment\nof Miss Salvation Clinker's; 'er 'eart. \"Or perhaps he had eaten\nsomething that was not good for him, too much laver or some mussels or\nperiwinkles, maybe?\" Here again my dietetic insight was based on Miss\nSalvation's lore. I was killing time while I summoned up courage for\nthe crucial word--\"or--or--took something that poisoned him?\"\n\nThe word was out and it had gone home. He did not scold me as he\nordinarily would have done for talking so much. I saw him looking\nsickly and frightened by the glare of the lamp by which he was\npretending to read. Then he got up hurriedly and left the room.\n\nI began to rack my brains for some more ordinary remarks to cover\nmy retreat. Aunt Martha saved me the trouble. \"Poison,\" she said,\n\"nonsense, most likely heart failure.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, \"Miss Salvation Clinker says all sudden deaths come\nfrom heart failure.\"\n\n\"All sudden deaths come because the Lord calls,\" she corrected. \"The\nLord called him, that was all. If He calls _you_, be ready.\"\n\n\nWhat I had so far discovered came to this: first, that talk of his\nbrother's death brought a queer look to Uncle Simeon's face; second,\nthat if you spoke of poison there was the same look; third, that it was\none and the same with the expression on his face the day he caught me\noutside his study door. In my heart I had already charged him with the\nworst of all crimes. I was determined by hook or crook to get into that\nstudy; to solve that mystery, which had the shadow of death--and of\nUncle Simeon--upon it.\n\nThis was about the end of August 1859. Then for a few weeks a happier\ninterest came into my life. But here again the shadow of Uncle Simeon\ninterposed, and darkened the happy dream.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV: WESTWARD HO!\n\n\nUncle Simeon did not allow me to go for walks alone. Albert, however,\nwho was my usual companion, got into the habit of leaving me as soon\nas we were away from the Quay, with a curt intimation to clear off in\nanother direction and to meet him later at a given place and time so\nthat we might return to the house together.\n\nOne fine day in early Autumn, I climbed to the top of one of the hills\nthat looks down on Torribridge: a picture made up of white houses,\nshining river, old bridge, green bosomy hills sloping down to the\nstream, and over them all the sun. The scene was pleasing, yet it\nmeant very little to me. There was the sun in my blood, and a young\ncreature's delight in the fine bright day, and in the feeling of space\nand power that you may feel in high clear places; no more than that.\nThere was no conscious enjoyment of the loveliness beneath me. The joy\nthat beautiful scenery can give to the soul I did not know. Children,\nlike animals, do not feel it. This emotion comes from books, pictures\nand art generally. As to romantic little boys who draw, or say they\ndraw, their deepest emotions from Nature's well--if so, it must be\nbecause they are learned little boys who, taught by the magical words\nof fine books that Nature is beautiful, have turned to her to find it\ntrue.\n\n\n                The sounding cataract\n    Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,\n    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,\n    Their colours and their forms, were then to me\n    An appetite; a feeling and a love,\n    That had no need of a remoter charm,\n    By thought supplied, nor any interest\n    Unborrowed from the eye ... a sense sublime\n    Of something far more deeply interfused,\n    Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,\n    And the round ocean and the living air,\n    And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;\n    A motion and a spirit, that impels\n    All thinking things, all objects of all thought,\n    And rolls through all things.\n\n\nWordsworth (that lost soul) felt those things and described them in\nauthentic terms. He could do this because he was not an ordinary, but\na very extraordinary, child of the mountains. How many shepherd boys\nsallying forth at dawn with their flocks up the Stye or along the\nLittle Langdale are haunted \"like a passion\" by the natural beauties\nthey see? They do not share the poet's emotions because they know\nnothing of the lovely words and pictures and ideas that can invest poor\nNature with romance.\n\nIn any case, I was neither a romantic nor a learned little boy, but a\nvery ignorant and unromantic little girl. It was only when I became\nsuddenly a little less ignorant of books, history and ideas, that I\ncame to see--where before there was at most a vague unconscious sense\nof pleasure--that Torribridge town seen from the hills was a fair\nprospect.\n\nThis is how it happened.\n\nI was leaning on a stile, idly looking down towards the far-away bridge\nand trying to count the arches.\n\n\"Fine!\" said a quiet voice behind me.\n\nI started, turned round, and beheld a stranger looking down at me. He\nwas a tall young man of perhaps twenty; his face pale and rather thin.\nHis eyes peered. A proud mouth contrasted with earnest eyes. He wore\nbreeches and carried a gun. Half squire, half scholar; something of\nthe studious, the aristocratic and sporting all combined. All I was\nsure of just then was a pair of kind brown eyes which I immediately and\nfavourably contrasted with the steel-blue glitter of Uncle Simeon's,\nand something exquisite and somehow superior to myself in their owner.\nI had an unerring instinct of class inferiority: I knew my betters.\n\n\"Fine, isn't it?\" repeated the Stranger.\n\n\"Ye-es,\" I said. I thought him a bit silly, and felt sillier myself.\n\n\"It's a fine sight,\" he said, leaning against the stile by my side.\n\"Isn't it, little girl? Come, say Yes.\"\n\nThe enthusiasm I failed to understand made me combative. \"What's the\ngood of it?\" I said tartly. \"It hasn't a soul.\"\n\nThe Stranger stared. He was surprised--or amused--I was not sure which.\n\n\"Hasn't a soul! This little town that has nestled there for a thousand\nyears, from the days when the Vikings first sailed up the Torridge till\nthe days when the New World was found, when ships sailed forth to the\nIndies from that quay there and came back laden with gold and wonderful\nspices? This little town we're looking at now that sent many ships to\nthe Armada and hundreds more to harry the Spaniards on all the seas?\nHasn't a soul, little girl! Are you sure?\"\n\n\"I didn't know all that; I have never heard of all those things and\npeople. There's Robinson Crewjoe, who sailed away to the Indies and\nlived on an island, that Aunt Jael wouldn't let Mrs. Cheese finish\ntelling me about. Did he sail from here?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure, but plenty of people like him did.\"\n\n\"And what's the Vikings and the Great Armada? I've heard of the Great\nLeviathan. Is that the same?\"\n\n\"Not quite. Most little girls have heard of these things. It's very\nstrange you know nothing about them. Don't you go to school?\"\n\n\"I did when I lived in Tawborough with my Grandmother and Aunt Jael: I\nwent to Miss Glory Clinker's. But now I'm in Torribridge I do lessons\nat home with Aunt Martha.\"\n\n\"Well, hasn't either the lady with the peculiar name or your aunt ever\ntaught you any history?\"\n\n\"History? All about Saul and David and Solomon and Ahab?\"\n\n\"Yes, but there's other history; the history of Torribridge for\ninstance, and of England; the History of the Armada we have just been\ntalking about.\"\n\n\"Why: did _you_ learn about those things at school?\"\n\n\"Yes. I do still.\"\n\n\"But you don't go to school still?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"But you're grown up.\"\n\n\"Well, I go to a school for grown-ups, don't you see?\"\n\n\"I've never heard of one. Where is it?\"\n\n\"In an old city a long way from here called Oxford.\"\n\n\"Oxford! Why I've heard of some one who's there. Do you know Lord\nTawborough?\"\n\nThe Stranger started.\n\n\"I do--well; very well. What do _you_ know about him?\"\n\n\"I know he was there at Oxford, that's all; I heard my Grandmother say\nso. What's he like?\"\n\n\"That's rather a hard question, young woman.\"\n\n\"Well, is he like you?\"\n\nThe Stranger smiled.\n\n\"Something like me perhaps; about the same age.\"\n\n\"Does he know about the Armada and all these wonderful things you've\ntold me about?\"\n\n\"Yes, I expect so, I expect he does, and\"--he switched away from Lord\nTawborough--\"you must learn about them too. You shall read about them\nin a book I'm going to give you.\"\n\n\"A book? What do you mean? My Grandmother would not let me read any\nbook but the Word, nor would Uncle Simeon. Torribridge doesn't come\ninto the Bible, nor do the Vikings nor the Armada, because I've read it\nall through five times and I would remember the names.\"\n\nHe smiled; it was a kind smile, yet quizzical. I liked him, but was not\nquite sure of him. I went on a little less confidingly.\n\n\"All other books except the Bible are full of lies. Aunt Jael says so.\"\n\nThis was final. How loyally I quoted Aunt Jael! Sure weapon with which\nto combat error. I knew I was a little boorish; perhaps I meant to be.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Stranger, \"your Grandmother and Uncle Simeon would let\nyou read this book, I know, and as it's all quite true, Aunt Jael won't\nmind either. We will go down into the town and buy it.\"\n\nI was proud of his company, proud of his voice, his face, his breeches,\nhis gun, which conferred distinction upon me. I apprehended that there\nwas something odd or special about me that amused him. He liked me and\nI liked him. He was from a kinder handsomer world than mine. His face\nwas a new treasure in my heart.\n\nI refused to go into the book-shop with him, partly through fear of\nbeing seen by Uncle Simeon, partly as a concession to Conscience. If I\nwas going to read a worldly book at least I would not go into the evil\nplace where it was sold. He came out and thrust a parcel into my hand.\n\"Good-bye. Meet me on the hill some other day and tell me if you are\nstill quite sure.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Sir. Sure of what?\"\n\n\"That Torribridge hasn't a soul!\"\n\nI stuffed the book into my blouse and rushed to the meeting-place\nAlbert had fixed. I was half an hour late and he swore at me. When we\ngot home, I put the parcel still unwrapped under the mattress. This\nwas a safe place, as I made my own bed; I must wait to begin reading\ntill the morning. If I were to begin tonight Uncle Simeon would see the\nlight under the door and come in to complain of the waste of candles.\nSo I resolved to wake early.\n\nNext morning I woke at five o'clock and undid my parcel. The book was\na dark red one. On the cover was printed in gold letters \"WESTWARD\nHO!\" It was as big as an average Bible, but not so thick. The moment\nI opened it, I was struck by the scent of the new pages. All smells\nare indescribable, though smell aids the memory and quickens the\nimagination as much as any other sense. To this day, it is by digging\nmy nose between those pages that I can best recall the sentiment of\nforty years ago: the pleasure of talking with the Stranger, the first\nwild rapture of reading.\n\nI began to read. Here was Torribridge, a place I knew and lived in,\ndescribed in print. I had read no other book but the Bible, which\nwas so familiar as to have become part of myself, part of my life,\nsomething more than any book. Then, too, its glamour was of far-away\nfolk and lands, holy places and holy people. The fact that now for the\nfirst time I saw printed words about seen and homely places--that I\nread of Torridge instead of Jordan, of Torribridge instead of Nineveh,\nof little oak ships that sailed from Tawborough Bay instead of great\narks of cedar wood that went forth from Tyre and Sidon--gave me a new\nand exciting sensation very hard to describe. In the degree that the\nlittle Devonshire town was less sacred than the Holy City of Mount\nZion, so it seemed to my eager eyes more wonderful to read about.\n\n\"All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North\nDevon, must needs know the little white town of Torribridge, which\nslopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and\nmany-arched old bridge where salmon wait for autumn floods, towards\nthe pleasant upland on the west. Above the town the hills close in,\ncushioned with deep oak woods, through which juts here and there a\ncrag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower, and open more and more\nin softly-rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red and green, till\nthey sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt marshes, and\nrolling sand-hills, where Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both\ntogether flow quickly toward the broad surges of the bar, and the\neverlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell. Pleasantly the old town\nstands there, beneath its soft Italian sky, fanned day and night by the\nfresh ocean breeze which forbids alike the keen winter frosts, and the\nfierce thunder heats of the midland; and pleasantly it has stood there\nfor now, perhaps, eight hundred years since the first Grenville cousin\nof the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of South Wales, drew\nround him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse rovers with their golden\ncurls, and dark Silurian Britons from the Swansea shore....\"\n\nThat afternoon I climbed the hill again, and saw for the first time\nsomething of the romance of the little white town; the bright roofs,\nthe line of masts and great brown sails in the harbour, the old bridge,\nthe yellow sands, the fields green golden or red with pasture harvest\nor loam, the dark velvet forests, deep blue sky and quiet silver river.\nI could imagine now the fierce Atlantic not far away, to which the\ngentle stream was flowing. I saw that it was beautiful, in the same way\nthat the lilies and roses in Solomon's Song are beautiful; or Heaven\nin Revelation, the city of jasper and pure gold, that has set in its\nmidst the great white throne. This change was wrought by a book. My\nGrandmother's oft-repeated words that the salvation of God could only\nhave been revealed in the Book came into my mind.\n\nWhen I came to the story proper of men who sailed\n\n\n    _Westward Ho! with a rumbelow,_\n    _And hurra for the Spanish Main O!_\n\n\nI was enthralled. The idea of a story, of a narrative of doings that\nnever took place, of invented events, had never entered my head.\nGoldilocks, Rumplestiltskin and Little Red Riding Hood were not of my\nworld. I had never begged \"Tell me a story,\" nor heard the magical\nantiphone \"Once upon a time.\"\n\nHad Grandmother ever heard of Westward Ho!? Did she know there were\nbooks like this; true, yet about familiar places? Surely she must.\nWould she approve? I doubted for a moment, remembering the picture-book\nUncle John had once sent to me, which Aunt Jael destroyed while my\nGrandmother looked on consenting; but was reassured by the godly\nsentiments which I found everywhere: by familiar phrases, even on the\nsecond page, such as \"heathen Roman and Popish tyranny.\" Were there\nother books like this? If so, I should like to read them. Were they\nabout the Indies too? A world of ideas possessed me, a new planet had\nswum into my skies. I read hard, wildly. I woke up at four that I might\nhave a good long read before getting up; I went to my bedroom at odd\nhours of the day to snatch a few moments' delight.\n\nOne day just after dinner Uncle Simeon came in in his usual noiseless\ncat-like way. I just had time to stuff the book under the mattress\nand to begin pretending to do my hair. He did not seem to have seen\nanything.\n\nI began to compare or contrast everything I read with myself or my\nown experiences. Flogging, for instance,--as practised by Sir Vindex\nBrimblecombe, whilom servitor of Exeter College, Oxford, and master of\nthe Grammar School of Torribridge. I read with interest that flogging\nis the \"best of all punishments\" (I inclined to doubt this), \"being\nnot only the shortest\" (indeed!) \"but also a mere bodily and animal\npunishment\" (why _mere_?), \"though for the punisher himself pretty\ncertain to eradicate from all but the noblest spirits every trace of\nchivalry and tenderness for the weak, as well as all self-control and\ncommand of temper.\" How true! How Aunt Jael's chivalry had waned! How\nUncle Simeon's tenderness for the weak had withered and wilted away!\nSurely this book too was inspired. I enjoyed Amyas' encounter with Sir\nVindex Brimblecombe. I loved to read how Sir Vindex jumped up, ferula\nin hand, and exhorted Amyas to \"come hither, sirrah, and be flayed\nalive\"; how the latter \"with a serene and cheerful countenance\" took\nup his slate, and brought it down on the skull of Sir Vindex \"with so\nshrewd a blow\" that slate and pate cracked on the same instant, and Sir\nVindex dropped down upon the floor and \"lay for dead.\" Oh vicarious\njoy, oh borrowed plumes of valour that I wore for that incident! I\nshut my eyes and visualized Aunt Jael in the stead of Sir Vindex\nBrimblecombe. \"Minx!\" she said (not sirrah), as she advanced upon me\n\"stick in hand,\" for although I did not know what a ferula was, I felt\nit was somewhat too light and lissom a description of thorned stick or\nship's rope. How I envied Amyas' \"serene and cheerful countenance\" and\nrevelled in the crash. I rehearsed the scene also with Uncle Simeon\nin the villain's part and with an even dearer joy brought down the\navenging slate on his honey-coloured coxcomb.\n\nTo every character in the book I tried to give a face. Amyas, the hero,\nwas my difficulty; I had met no heroes. Don Guzman I pictured as Uncle\nSimeon, though statelier and nobler. Mrs. Leigh was naturally Mrs. Lee,\nmy Grandmother; in name and character alike. Salvation Yeo I pictured\nas Brother Brawn, Frank Leigh,--tall, pale and distinguished--was of\ncourse the Stranger. I did not care very much for the Rose of Torridge\nherself, and had little interest in any of the ladies' doings. Theirs\nwas a secondary part. They did not do things themselves; they stayed at\nhome in Torribridge to think about and wait for and be loved by the men\nwho did the valiant deeds. Love affairs, so-called, failed to interest\nme at all, though the passionate affection between Mrs. Leigh and her\nsons made me husky and envious. It never occurred to me to visualize\nmyself as Rose; if I took any part it was Amyas'.\n\nI was much interested in the description of Christmas Day. \"It was the\nblessed Christmas afternoon. The light was fading down; the even-song\nwas done; and the good folks of Torribridge were trooping home in merry\ngroups, the father with his children, the lover with his sweetheart,\nto cakes and ale, and flap-dragons and mummers' plays, and all the\nhappy sports of Christmas night.\" Why _blessed_ Christmas afternoon,\nI wondered? Was the word used in Mrs. Cheese's naughty sense or Miss\nGlory Clinker's noble one? In either case I didn't see how it applied\nto the hideous 25th of December at Bear Lawn.\n\nI was pleased with the sound views on Popery, described as frantic,\nfilthy, wily, false, cruel. Papists were skulkers, dogs, slanderers,\nmurderers, devils. To be brought up by Catholics was to be taught the\nscience of villany on the motive of superstition, to learn that \"all\nlove was lust\" and all goodness foul. A Romanist was not a man, but a\nthing, a tool, a Jesuit. I did not understand it all, but I approved\nhighly. That bigotry which mars the book in the eyes of fair-minded\nmen was the quality that sealed it with the mark of virtue in my\nzealot eyes. Critics (I have since learnt) forgive the slanderous\nreligious hate of this book for the sake of the fresh spirit and the\nfine story: I excused these dangerous delights to my conscience and\nto my Grandmother's conscience by the author's pious attitude towards\nRome and error. I felt that the book, in spite of the wild pleasure it\ngave me, must nevertheless be godly, because of the pious plenitude\nwith which it anathematized the Bad Old Man of the Seven Hills, the\nScarlet Woman, the Great Whore of Babylon, the Blatant Beast, the great\nHIM-HER. There was self-deceiving here.\n\nThe story was the thing: the most chivalrous adventure of the good\nship \"Rose\"; how they came to Barbados, and found no men therein; how\nthey took the pearls at Margarita; what befell at La Guayra; Spanish\nBloodhounds and English Mastiffs; how they took the Communion under\nthe tree at Higuerote; the Inquisition in the Indies; the banks of\nthe Meta; how Amyas was tempted of the devil; how they took the gold\ntrain. I lived in a world of gold and silver, ships and swords, Dons\nand Devils. I saw the great Cordillera covered with gigantic ferns,\nand the foamless blue Pacific. I caught my breath as I stumbled on\nthe dim ruins of dead Indian Empires; and I wiped my eyes when I read\nof Salvation Yeo and his little maid. I liked to read of the Queen of\nEngland, of Drake, Raleigh and Sir Richard Grenville, Devon men all,\nand John Oxenham swaggering along Torribridge Quay. I was interested\nmost of all by Don Guzman, with his sweet sonorous voice, his woman's\ngrace and his golden hair, as of a god. He had been everywhere and\nseen all. He knew the two Americas, the East Indies and the West, Old\nSpain, the seven cities of Italy, the twilight-coloured Levant and the\nmultitudinous East....\n\nI skimmed through each chapter quickly, and then read it slowly to\ndrink in every word. Excitement of another kind was added by the\ndifficulties of reading; I had to stop sometimes in the middle of an\nexciting passage and hide the book hastily away, when I heard Uncle\nSimeon on the staircase. However, I managed to get three-quarters way\nthrough without mishap: as far as the attack on the gold train. Amyas\nand his men were hiding in the forest. The long awaited Spaniards and\ntheir treasure were just in sight. \"Suddenly\"--my heart beat fast,\nthen stood still at the sound of a stealthy foot-fall. The door opened\nand Uncle Simeon came in. I had no time to stuff the book under the\nmattress properly. I leaned against the place where the clothes were\nruffled and pretended to be making my bed. This, I thought bitterly,\nwas the only sort of excitement my life afforded: not splendid bravery\nand adventure in South American forests but mere feeble cunning to save\nmyself from this whey-faced cringing wretch. He smiled blandly.\n\n\"Your aunt wants you to go for a walk with her,\" he said.\n\nHe tried to appear unconcerned, but I feared he had seen something. The\nmoment he had gone I hid the book carefully under the mattress, right\nin the very middle of the bed. When I came back from the walk with Aunt\nMartha I went straight up to my room. _The book was not there._ My\nfirst rage at losing my treasure gave place, upon reflection, to fear.\nWhat would he do? At tea he smiled in a sneering way and said \"What\nis worrying you, little one? You are pale.\" His manner frightened me.\nThe very fact that he said nothing about the matter was unusual and\npresaged something exceptionally bad. Would he use the whip, or make\nthe worst of it to Aunt Jael and Grandmother? And what had he done\nwith the book? The answer to these questions, though I did not know it\ntill much later, is lying before me as I write. It is written on faded\nyellow paper, in a neat hand, with old-fashioned pointed characters.\n\n\n    NO 1, THE QUAY,\n    TORRIBRIDGE,\n    Sept. 17th 1858.\n\n    Dear Kinswomen and Sisters in the Lord,--\n\n    One hopes the fine weather the Lord is sending finds both of you as\n    well in body and mind and as thankful in spirit for our manifold\n    blessings from above as I rejoice to say it finds dear Martha and\n    one's own poor self. Dear little Mary too is well: the happy result\n    of the good air of Torribridge and of the plenteous, if plainly,\n    fare one's table affords. But the little one is not, alas, so\n    thankful in spirit as her Aunt and oneself could wish. She has just\n    done a deed which displays but poor gratitude, dear sisters, for\n    your loving spiritual training of her early years and for one's\n    own godly, if humble, care. She has, alas, committed a grievous\n    sin; though it pains one to speak thus, one had best speak openly.\n    A grievous sin--one shrinks from writing the words, but there is\n    one's duty to you, to the child, to her aunt and to one's own\n    afflicted self. The facts are these.\n\n    Yesterday one found her in her bedchamber--a homely if humble\n    apartment to which one has always trusted her to retire at\n    will--one found her in the act of reading a _vile and worldly\n    book_. She hid it craftily under the bed-clothes when she heard\n    one coming into the room as one chanced to do the other day. One\n    let her see plainly one had detected all, looking at her sadly, as\n    though to say \"Ah, if Miss Vickary and dear Mrs. Lee knew what a\n    viper they have nourished in their respective bosoms!\", and gave\n    her one more chance to conquer her sin by herself and destroy the\n    noisome thing. But no! \"As a dog returneth to his vomit so a fool\n    to his folly\" (Prov. xxvi, II--your own favourite Proverbs, dear\n    Miss Vickary)--and yesterday once again found her flushed with\n    the carnal pleasure of those evil pages. One opened the book,\n    not without a silent prayer that the Lord would cleanse one from\n    its touch. Feeling it one's plain, if painful, duty to see more\n    clearly the nature of the evil thing, one perused a few pages. One\n    found it to be a _licentious novel_, treating of haughty women\n    \"with stretched-forth necks and wanton eyes\" (Isaiah iii, 16), of\n    men who spend their days \"in rioting and drunkenness, chambering\n    and wantonness\" (Romans xiii, 13) and of drunkards, roisterers,\n    sinners and blasphemers. Here and there the writer, who is, one is\n    told, a Church of England minister in this town--so what could one\n    hope?--strives to beguile the unwary by striking a godly attitude\n    towards Rome. Sounding brass and tinkling cymbals--wolfish pretence\n    to lead poor sheep astray. There is even worse than this; foul and\n    wanton language abounds. A bad word on page 74 pained one much.\n\n    Nothing has been said to the child yet, awaiting your wishes. One\n    hopes you will not wish her to be punished _too_ severely. \"Whom\n    the Lord loveth he correcteth!\" (Prov. iii, 12). One knows! one\n    knows! Yet forgiveness may do much. One's heart shrinks from blows;\n    nothing but the direst sin ever drives one to bodily correction.\n    No! One will simply burn the book before her, add a few godly\n    words and read a Psalm together.\n\n    Apart from this, the child's spiritual state is not without hope,\n    but she is a tree that needs careful pruning, if she is to take up\n    her cross, as one hopes, in the foreign field. She holds special\n    place in our hearts (dear Martha's and one's own), nor do we cease\n    to pray for her. God has blessed her in the past, and bestowed\n    many gifts and advantages, but one longs to know that she has\n    received better things than this poor world can give, even joy and\n    peace, the result of sin forgiven and the assurance of eternal\n    life by faith in God's Son as revealed in His Word. You will bear\n    with one in speaking thus. One's love for her is great, and one\n    dares to hope, dear Mrs. Lee, that your regard for one's self is\n    considerable too, when you compare one with that other son-in-law,\n    whose evil qualities, alas, seem to be showing in his little\n    daughter despite her Christian environment.\n\n    Our Meetings lately have been very helpful. A new sister has been\n    won from Error; formerly a Wesleyan Methodist, a Miss Towl. Am\n    deriving great consolation from a careful study of the prophet Joel.\n\n    Forgive the length of this letter; one would have come to\n    Tawborough had not the Lord's work detained one. Accept Martha's\n    loving greetings and believe me in the Brotherhood of the Lord,\n\n    One who is less than the least of all the Saints,\n\n    SIMEON GREEBER.\n\n    P.S. The poor wayward child refuses to tell _how_ she came by the\n    abomination. It was new, so she must have bought it in a shop where\n    such things are sold. Her money should be watched. Little though\n    she is so wisely allowed, would it not be better for one to take\n    charge of it, to ensure that it be not spent in sin?\n\n    P.P.S. Hoping that the Lord is granting you both the best of health\n    and strength. Dear little Albert has a slight touch of quinsy, but\n    this is yielding to treatment and prayer.\n\n\nThe flattering creeping hound! His letter describes him better than any\nwords of mine. At the time I knew nothing of it; I was merely uneasy\nand wondered why nothing was happening.\n\nA few days later, just as we had finished evening prayers, he called me\nover to the fireside and said, \"There's a duty to the Lord, little one,\nand to your dear Great-Aunt and Grandmother that has to be fulfilled.\nOne has their orders and one's Lord's to obey.\" He rummaged in his\ncupboard and brought forth my dear book. He looked at me, the lowest\nmeanest triumph in his eyes, then flung the book savagely into the\nmidst of the flames. In the fire-light he looked livid with spite. \"So\nshall they burn who go a-whoring after strange gods,\" he hissed.\n\nHow I hated him. Yet for a moment as the dear book burned, I did not\nthink of him. I was wondering how Amyas captured the Gold Train, and if\nSalvation Yeo found his little maid, and what the Stranger would say if\nI met him again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI: ROBBIE\n\n\nMore than ever I lived in the world of my own imagination.\n\nEvery day and a good part of every night--for I rarely fell asleep\ntill one or two o'clock--I was thinking, worrying, brooding, planning,\ndreaming. I too would sail to the Indies and the lands of hidden\ngold, gleaning fame which would help me to bear Aunt Jael's taunts\nwith silent scorn, and wealth which I could fling in her face as\nclanging and triumphant rejoinder to \"_I_ pay for the child's music.\"\nI would succour the oppressed Indians, free the slaves, overthrow the\nInquisition, and bring each and all into the Brethren fold; baldly\nunaware that these things belonged to centuries past. To right the\nwrong was important; the all-important was that _I_ should do it.\nBut was it possible to a girl? Could even a grown woman do such\nthings? Sailors were always men, shipwrecked mariners were always\nmen, adventurers were always men. Bright deeds were the monopoly of\nbreaches. It was not fair.\n\nI would think of Mrs. Cheese's friend, poor old Robinson Crewjoe. I\ninvented many desert islands of my own on which I was duly shipwrecked,\nwas for ever drawing new maps of them, showing streams, creeks,\nbays and hills, position of my principal residence, summer bower,\nlanding-spot of savages, position of wreck, etc., etc. I devised walks,\nexpeditions, explorations; I varied my menu with a feminine skill\nunknown to old Robinson; and always, as befitted our morally-minded\nrace, I would do good in my islands. I would justify my joy by works.\nI would convert the savages, and build a Meeting Room of clay and\nwattles. I would raid their Great God Benamuckee in his mountain\nfastness, burn him with ceremonial state, and thus atone for my own\nmemorable blasphemy. But the chief joy, alas, of my twenty years'\nsojourning was never so much in what I did as in announcing to the\nworld that I had done it; not in the good I wrought, but in the praise\nI should earn. Those twenty years of playing the shipwrecked sea-woman\nmust be lit up by the glare of fame with which I should burst upon\nthe world when at last some well-timed passing schooner restored me\nto the world. Horrible thought: suppose I, died there? It was not,\nfor the moment, the idea of death that chilled me--for He chills\neverywhere--but the thought of the glory I should lose by dying before\nmy adventures had astonished the world. And the sex trouble again.\nWould trousers (if I wore them) however masculine, however bifurcative,\nenable me to build huts, to shoot, fish, hunt and to fight savages as\nwell as a man? My inability to do these manly things, however, deterred\nme little in my dreams. The castle-in-the-air-builder may build beyond\nher bricks.\n\nAt this time Uncle Simeon was naturally my most frequent actor. I\nfashioned a dozen different things I should discover about him and his\nattic, and a dozen different ways I should discover them. Sweetest of\nall were visions of revenge. He was a papist in disguise; I had him\nhanded over to a kind of Protestant Holy Office, set up for his own\npeculiar benefit, of which I was Grand Inquisitress; I was not stingy\nwith my bolts and nuts and prongs and screws; my soul spared not for\nhis crying. A great pitched battle between Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon\nwas my _pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance_. Their hatred for each other was the fiery\nbasis of the vision, my hatred for both of them the fuel. He would\nswish and she would bang. I let both of them be hurt, while I grudged\nto each of them the joy of hurting. If anybody won the battle it would\nbe Aunt Jael; for my hatred of her was comparatively a mild thing, a\nhealthy human thing, just as she was a healthy, cruel, humanly bad\nold woman, a mere wild beast in comparison to this Greeber reptile. I\npreferred a long long struggle of evenly matched sneers, retorts, cuts\nand blows, which went on hour after hour until both were bleeding,\nbruised and utterly exhausted: grimmest of drawn battles. Then I would\nstep in as lofty mediator with the blessed aureole of peace-maker about\nmy head, the pain and weakening of both my enemies for reward. (The\nsame dream the Third Napoleon dreamt a few years later with Austria and\nPrussia in the r\u00f4les of Uncle Simeon and Aunt Jael: rudely shattered,\nwas it not, by that swift Sadowa? But the Saviour of Society could not\nwork his dream figures at will.)\n\nIn most of my picturings either I was alone, or dealing with enemies,\nsome of whom, like Eternity, got the better of me, and others, like\nUncle Simeon and Aunt Jael, over whom I triumphed. I shared no castle\nwith a friend. A friend! Aunt Martha, Albert, Uncle Simeon?--I saw no\none else. No visitor ever came to the house.\n\nI was astonished therefore when the portents announced one. One\nafternoon I heard a noise of shifting in one of the unoccupied\nbedrooms. I looked in, and saw all the disarray of cleaning, with\nAunt Martha and the charwoman, Miss Woe, getting the room into order.\nWas it merely an autumn spring-cleaning, or was somebody coming to\nstay? I peeped in again next morning. There were clean sheets, the\nbed was turned down, there was water in the ewer. Grandmother or Aunt\nJael? No; I heard from Tawborough every week. Prolonged visit of Mr.\nNicodemus Shufflebottom? No: it would wring Uncle Simeon's heart to\nrevive the possibility of that nightmare breakfast of egg _and_ bacon\nAunt Martha had dared to put before him. After the day's walk, I looked\nin at the bedroom again on my way down to tea. Oh mystery, there was\na long black trunk, studded with brass nails and bearing in new white\npaint the superscription: R.P.G. A small cap and overcoat thrown on\nthe bed revealed the age and sex of the new comer. I went down to the\ndining-room, and found him seated at the tea-table.\n\n\"Master Robert,\" said Uncle Simeon; introducing us in the honeyed voice\nhe used before you knew him, \"this is Mary. You may come forward,\nlittle one. This is Master Robert.\"\n\nHandshake was followed by the furtive silence during which children\nstare at each other while vainly pretending to look elsewhere. Master\nRobert being the shyer, pretended more than he stared: I, being even\nmore curious than shy, stared more than I pretended. I saw a healthy\nboy's face with big brown eyes, a head of chestnut coloured hair and\na brown velvet suit, the last very impressive. I guessed he was about\nmy own age, though he was taller and bigger. All through tea I stared\nat him with merest snatches of polite pretence. This was the first\ntime I had ever sat at the same table with any boy, except Albert. The\nlatter did not appear to share his father's obsequious delight in the\nnew-comer, over whom Uncle Simeon sat fawning.\n\nI know now that he was a handsome little boy, but doubt if I thought\nso then. If I did, I was too jealous to admit it to myself. I felt I\nwas an odd drab little object by the side of this healthy, well-dressed\nand superior being, as far above me as I above Susan Durgles. His rich\nvelvet suit, my old grey merino; his laughing, tan-coloured face and\nbrown happy eyes; my pinched white face and cat-green eyes: he was\nsomething better and richer and finer and happier than I was, and I\ndid not like him. Little girls, they say, are never never jealous of\nlittle boys' good looks, and the only people whose looks they envy are\nthe other little girls with whom they are competing for the favour of\nthe good-looking little boys. It may be so. I was pitiably ignorant of\nthe proper sentiments. My world was divided not into sexes but into two\nclasses divided far more deeply: myself and other people. The second\nclass was mostly cruel and unkind, so every new-comer was suspect.\nMaster Robert's fine poise, his colour, his health, the curve of his\nmouth, the velvet suit (I could not take my eyes from it, what wealth,\nwhat prestige, it betokened!) were all against him, and more so the\nfavour with which he was regarded by Uncle Simeon. He was shy; I could\nstare him out easily. I fell to wondering who he was and why he was\nhere.\n\nRobert Grove was the younger brother of Aunt Martha's old pupil (who\nhad died some years back) and the orphan heir to a fine house and\nestate the other side of Tiverton. Nearly all his relatives were dead\nexcept a bachelor uncle, Vivian Grove, Esquire, with whom he lived at\nthe latter's house near Exeter. Uncle Vivian was travelling abroad for\na few months and had put Robert here in his absence. Aunt Martha was\nknown to and respected by Mr. Grove as the old governess of his elder\nnephew, though if he had known the kind of house she lived in now he\nwould have hardly sent Master Robert there with so light a heart. The\narrangements must have been made through friends or by correspondence,\nas Mr. Grove never entered our house and Aunt Martha never went away to\nsee him.\n\nRobert did lessons with Albert and me, and the three of us went our\nwalks together. Uncle Simeon fawned on the new-comer and was by\ncomparison sharper than ever with me; until, seeing that Robert did\nnot like this, he pretended to treat me better. He did not want to\noffend Robert, who might write to his Uncle Vivian, and ask to be sent\nsomewhere else. To make sure of keeping Robert's board money, he had to\ncurb somewhat his dislike for me. Greed vanquished spite, or rather,\nwhile profit was a thing it must be his present endeavour to retain,\nspite would wait. For greed's sake he fawned sickeningly upon the boy;\na few kicks in dark corners and pinches as he passed me on the stairs\nsufficed for the present as tribute to spite. Albert and Robert were\non bad terms from the start; Albert disliked him as I did, for his\nbetter clothes and superior ways, and more bitterly, \"for sneaking up\nto father.\" Robert despised Albert. Albert tried to win my alliance\nagainst him by treating me better. I accepted his advances while\nknowing their motive and value.\n\nMaster Robert and I had not much to say to each other. Despite my\njealousy, I could see how much better and kinder-faced he was than\nAlbert, but I could not like him, as he was \"in\" with Uncle Simeon.\nThe very fact that his face was good made me despise him the more for\nliking Uncle Simeon; I felt he was a traitor. He could not be \"very\nmuch of it\" or he would show much more plainly than he did what he\nthought of Uncle Simeon's treatment of me. This I could see upset\nhim, but he was too cowardly to say so. On the other hand, he knew\nnothing of the sly slaps and dark-corner kicks with which his dear\nfriend favoured me. Jealousy was kept alive by the better treatment he\ngot in the way of food and everything else, which he seemed to take\nfor granted. Yet if the facts of the case were against him, instinct\nspoke on the other side. I knew that any one whose eyes looked at you\nin the same kind way as my Grandmother's must, like her, be kind and\ngood. I argued that he was horrid, I felt that he was kind. I was as\nsure he did not treat me well as I was that I would like it if he did.\nOnce he made friendly advances. I shied off; toady to a toady of Uncle\nSimeon's? Never! When I had rebuffed him, I began to reproach him with\nnot making further efforts at friendliness. If he really wanted to, he\nwould try again. If I had been a jolly little girl with fine clothes,\ncurly hair and dark bright eyes, he would be trying all day long.\nWhy were these allurements denied me, why had I no single attractive\nquality?\n\nNow if ever in all recorded history there was a little girl ignorant\nof the bare existence of boy and girl sentiment and of all the normal\nnotions that ordinary books, playmates and surroundings give to\nchildren, I was that little girl. Yet here at my first contact with a\npresentable young male of the human species, I was a-sighing for charms\nto lure him.\n\nThis struggle over the pros and cons of Master Robert raged within.\nWe had little to say to each other. Uncle Simeon never left us alone\ntogether; watched us and made a careful third when Albert and Aunt\nMartha were not about. The first time we spoke to each other alone must\nhave been two or three weeks after he came. Aunt and Uncle were both\ngoing out.\n\n\"Albert,\" he said, \"don't you leave your cousin and Robert alone.\nEntertain them, you know, while one is out, you--ha ha!--are the master\nof the house.\"\n\nAs soon as Albert, leaning out of the window, had seen his father\nsafely round the corner, he went out too, for communion I suppose with\nhis unsaved friends.\n\n\"No sneaky tricks, mind!\" he said to me, and looked the same injunction\nat Robert.\n\n\"Why does he talk like that?\" said the latter, as soon as he was gone.\nWe looked at each other. \"Do--do you _really_ like him?\"\n\nThe implied tribute flattered me. I flung my new ally to the dogs.\n\n\"Not very much,\" I said.\n\n\"At all?\"\n\n\"No, not at all--really.\"\n\n\"And--Mr. Greeber, do you like him?\"\n\n\"Do you _think_ I do? You know all right. Do _you_?\"\n\n\"No.\" He paused. \"You don't like it here at all, do you?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because you don't look as though you liked it\": awkwardly.\n\n\"I know I don't look as though I liked it,\" I snapped. \"I know I don't\nlook anything nice! We can't _all_ look lovely. _You_ don't look like\nI do, so what does it matter to you? _You_ haven't much to abide. _You_\ndon't get it all day long.\" Starving for sympathy I pushed it away.\n\n\"No--o. I know. But I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"_Why_ are you sorry?\" I would hold out in the grim fortress of my\nloneliness, or I would taunt him to say something so plain, to attack\nso boldly, that he would force me to give in. I was holding out for a\nmore complete surrender.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Oh well, I don't know, because--I mean--I think--I like you. You are\nnot really like he said you were. I never thought it.\"\n\nI pounced. \"_He_ said I was? What about him? What did he say? Tell me.\"\n\nAunt Martha came in and cut us short.\n\nThat night in bed, in my usual Think I found how much happier I was.\nI placed him high; excelling Miss Glory Clinker, equalling Brother\nBriggs and much nicer looking, nearing the Stranger, and falling short\nof my Grandmother only. That was my complete catalogue of friendly\npeople. Yet why did he never take my part? Why had he not made it\nclearer to Uncle Simeon that he disliked him as he had told me he did,\nand disliked him most of all for ill-treating me? Over and above all,\nhow could he sit at meals gorging himself on dainties and look calmly\nacross the table at me with never enough to eat?\n\nSince his arrival food had improved, but not for me. The contrast was\nthe more marked. At breakfast for instance, Robert began with porridge,\nof course with sugar and milk, then he had an egg, usually poached\non a piece of buttered toast; or a rasher of bacon with lovely bread\nfried in the fat, and laver; or perhaps mackerel done in butter. Then\nhe had as many slices of bread and butter as he wanted, spread with\nsome of Aunt Martha's home-made jam, whortleberry, raspberry or black\ncurrant (by what he was allowed to eat I gauged the mighty sum Uncle\nVivian must be paying for board: I had no idea of money values but the\nsum must be vast, infinite). Uncle Simeon had much the same, less the\njam. Albert was not only docked the jam, but his egg was merely boiled\ninstead of poached and served on toast, or if it were bacon he had no\nlaver and a much smaller piece of bread fried in the fat. There was a\nheavy drop to Aunt Martha, who had porridge, and bread and butter with\njam. I came last of all with porridge and jamless bread and butter;\nvery often not even the latter because of punishments or \"mortifyings.\"\nNote the careful grading. Robert got the most: there was a purse behind\nhim. Uncle Simeon's lavishness here was dictated by meanness: \"If I\nfeed the boy well, he stays; if he stays he pays.\" For himself he was\ntorn as always between meanness and greed. He compromised shrewdly\nby foregoing his jam, which he did not care for overmuch. Meanness\nalone governed Albert's ration, so the King's son got less than the\nKing. Aunt Martha received what her husband chose to allow her, as a\ngood wife should. Spite as well as meanness apportioned to me, Hagar,\nleast of all; though if my bigger portion of porridge were counted\nagainst her jam, Aunt Martha really fared no better than I did; and\nthin and pale she looked. Robert riled me most. It was natural for\nUncle Simeon to be mean, greedy, vile. In Robert I felt it was wrong;\nlike Methodies, _he knew better_. Kind brown eyes were all very well,\nbut a poor set-off to a greedy little belly. One morning therefore\nwhen in the middle of breakfast, just as he was beginning his poached\negg, Robert said he felt sick, I neither felt sorry nor pretended to.\nJustice at last! I hoped he would be very, _very_ sick. Uncle Simeon\nfollowed him out, fawning.\n\n\"Look here child, eat this,\" said Aunt Martha passing me Robert's\npoached egg, \"'twill do you good.\" Kindly but fearfully: her usual\nstruggle. She declined to share it with me, so I accepted. I was just\nmunching the last delicious yellow mouthful, when Robert came back,\nlooking still pale, but better. He saw what had happened, and flushed\ncrimson. He saw what I thought of him and flushed deeper.\n\nThat afternoon, when I was in my bedroom putting on my hat, there was a\ntimid knocking. He walked in. I hardened my heart.\n\n\"I'm sorry about breakfast, Mary,\" he faltered. I knew his heart was\nbeating fast.\n\n\"Breakfast? What do you mean, _Master_ Robert?\"\n\n\"You know. The egg. I'm sorry--\"\n\n\"Of course you are. Sorry I ate it.\"\n\nHe flushed. I developed a meticulous interest in a pincushion.\n\n\"No; sorry to see you eating it so hungrily. You know that's what I\nmeant. Now I know it's all lies when he says eggs are bad for you and\nthat you don't like them and you refuse them when he offers them and\nthat you mustn't eat much of anything. It's all a lie, because he\ndoesn't want you to eat things, because he hates you or because he's\nmean. I always thought it funny you never had nice things. I asked him\nthree times and he said you were always taking medicine, and the doctor\nsaid you must eat very little and always very plain. You must have\nthought me horrid.\"\n\n\"I did. I'm sorry. Oh, the liar, the mean wretch, he dare tell you all\nthat? Look here, we've begun now, haven't we, so I'm going to tell\nyou what I know of him; everything. First you must answer a question.\nDo you just not like Uncle, or do you really hate him, hate him like\nthis?\" I clenched my fists and ground my teeth together.\n\n\"Yes, _now_ I do; he's never done anything to me, but I've liked him a\nbit less every day I've been here. Now I hate him, like you do.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you, he's a mean, cruel, wicked man. He beats and\ncuffs and pinches me when you're not looking. He canes me till I\nbleed. He starves me so as to make as much money as he can out of what\nmy Grandmother pays him. The first morning I came I said No, when he\noffered me one miserable spoonful of his egg. I've never touched one\nsince, and he's told you all this about my not liking eggs at all. I do\ntake medicine, but it's because I'm ill and don't get enough to eat.\nHe's mean and he hates me, that's why he starves me: one as much as\nthe other. He's nice to you because you're rich and important and have\nfriends and relations. Do they pay a lot of money for you?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"They must do or you wouldn't get so much to eat. Oh, the beast, he's\nalways talking as though he was so good and then he starves me and\ngives me sneakish blows in the dark. He praises the Lord with his lips\nand he's got the devil in his heart. He flatters with his tongue, but\nhis inward part is very wickedness--\"\n\nI stopped short, fancying I heard a noise outside, and looked out\ninto the passage. There he was, skulking as usual, making pretence to\nrummage in a cupboard just outside the door.\n\n\"What are you doing, Uncle?\" I asked weakly, very weakly.\n\n\"What are _you_ doing, one asks.\"\n\n\"I just--opened the door....\"\n\n\"_Ah_,\" he said, slipping away.\n\n\"Has he heard?\" asked Robert fearfully.\n\n\"Every word. I don't care. He knows the truth now; he can't treat me\nworse than he has done. I hate him. Everything is hateful. All the\nworld is against me always; 'tis all beating and starving and meanness\nand misery; and nobody loves me. I wish I'd never been born, I do, I\ndo.\" I broke down and sat on the bed, sobbing bitterly.\n\n\"Don't, Mary,\" huskily, \"everybody doesn't hate you, I don't.\" He sat\nbeside me and put his arm on my shoulder.\n\nThat was the beginning of happiness.\n\nI cried more than ever, but they were other tears.\n\n\"Don't cry, Mary, don't cry, please. I like you. Tell me you know I do.\nI'm going to do something, I'm going to help you somehow. I'll never\ntouch another egg unless you do too, and if he stops mine, I'll write\nto Uncle Vivian and tell him why. I shall ask Uncle Vivian to let me go\nsomewhere else as soon as I can; but you must get away first, you must\nask your Grandmother to have you back with her right away. Mary dear,\ndon't cry.\"\n\nHe was on the border line himself. He screwed a dirty little\nhandkerchief into his eyes. The other arm was still on my shoulder. He\nwas crying too. Then I comforted him, and found it a joy greater even\nthan being comforted.\n\n\"We must go now,\" I said, getting up. \"Come on, _Master_ Robert,\"\nsmiling; smiling being a thing I achieved perhaps once a year.\n\n\"No, and don't say Robert either. Say Robbie. Uncle Vivian and all the\npeople I like call me that.\"\n\nThere were two pairs of red eyes at the tea table that night, and one\npair of steel blue ones which observed them. From that moment, the\npolitical situation of No. 1 the Quay was entirely transformed. In the\nfield of domestic economy there was a more striking change still. Next\nmorning, I almost reeled when a boiled egg was set before me, though as\nthe porridge was cut down by nearly half, my Uncle spiced his defeat\nwith triumph. Openly he treated me no worse, though he gave me a savage\nkick in the hall that night. I knew he was saving up for something\ndreadful. Once the mood of passion and defiance had passed away, I was\nmore afraid of him than ever. He hated Robbie now, while striving not\nto show it. Robbie showed his feelings sometimes and was openly surly.\nThe short-lived Albert-Mary _entente_ collapsed once for all, shattered\nby the Mary-Robert alliance.\n\nThe new friendship caused a veritable revolution in all my ideas. Now,\nwhenever I was brooding or thinking away in my usual bitter fashion,\nI would say to myself, \"Think of it, quickly, quickly,\" and I would\nfeel again his hand on my shoulder; he would comfort me and I him. I\nre-lived it over and over again. It was the first purely happy vision\nI had ever conjured up. To Robbie it meant much less. I decided he\nwas a nice little boy, kind and decent-hearted; he had been sorry to\nsee me unhappy and he had been glad to comfort me. It was an impulse;\nnot more. He liked me, he _pitied_ me, but the whole thing meant very\nlittle to him.\n\nOne day a letter came from his Uncle Vivian.\n\nHe came to me joyfully. \"Hurrah! Hurrah! I shall be going away soon.\nI'm ever so glad.\"\n\n\"In every way?\" with a sneer; hungrily.\n\nHe flushed crimson, as we do when any one surprises us in thoughtless\negotism; when another lays bare to us a selfishness we were too selfish\nto have seen. Or else it was the cruel injustice of what I said, or\nboth: the good reason and the bad.\n\n\"You know I didn't mean that. When I get to Uncle Vivian I'll tell him\nto write to your Grandmother and tell her all about it and have you\ntaken away. She'd listen to my uncle. But wait, you must get away from\nhere before that. It would be dreadful if you were here alone for a bit\nbetween my going and the time you'd be able to get away, if we waited\nfor Uncle Vivian to write--\"\n\n\"He'd kill me if he dared. Can't you write to Uncle Vivian now, so that\nhe could write to my Grandmother at once? I can't write. Uncle Simeon\nreads all my letters to her.\"\n\n\"A letter of mine mightn't reach Uncle Vivian. The last time he wrote\nto me was from Paris in France; he said he was going further south for\nChristmas, that's somewhere much further away, and said I need not\nwrite again as he would be back for the New Year. We're quite near\nChristmas now, so it's too late. I'll tell you my plan. Now, the day\nI go away, Mr. Greeber is sure to be at the railway station to see me\noff. The minute we've left the house you must be dressed and ready to\nrun away and walk back to Tawborough; your Grandmother couldn't be\nangry if you told her all about him. Then Uncle Vivian will write as\nsoon as I see him, and you won't have been alone with Mr. Greeber in\nthe house for a minute.\"\n\n\"'Tisn't Grandmother, 'tis Aunt Jael. And suppose only Uncle Simeon\ngoes with you to the station to see you off. What about Albert and Aunt\nMartha? Besides, he'll make me come too. He'd do it to please you,\nknowing you'd like it, though out of spite he'd want me not to, because\nhe knows I'd like to. It all depends whether he wants to be nice to you\nmore than to be nasty to me. Nice to you, I think, most of the two,\nbecause he can be nasty enough to me the second you're gone.\"\n\n\"You could say you felt sick.\"\n\n\"That's a lie. Besides, that might make him want to make me come all\nthe more, if he thought it would pain me or make me feel worse to come.\nI don't tell lies, if he does. Unless of course, I _really_ felt sick.\nI could take something and make myself sick, and then 'twould be true.\nBut then Aunt Martha would say she'd stay with me while the rest of you\nwent to the railway station. No, the best thing is to pretend very much\nI'd like to come, which of course I would, and then he won't let me.\nYou might pretend to quarrel with me the last day; that would help. The\nreal trouble is Aunt Jael; she'd get into a frightful rage and send me\nback; and when I came back, 'twould be a hundred times worse. He'd kill\nme.\"\n\n\"You said your Aunt Jael hated Mr. Greeber. If she knew he'd like it,\nare you sure she'd send you back; when she knew too that you'd run away\nfor fear of your life? I'm sure she wouldn't do that.\"\n\n\"You don't know her. No, my plan is this: to write a letter somehow\nto Grandmother, who'd talk to Aunt Jael and sort of prepare her\nfor my running away. I'll write it in bed tonight, it's the only\nplace I can where he's not watching me; and we'll post it tomorrow\nafternoon, sometime on the walk when Albert isn't looking. I'll tell my\nGrandmother about the canings, and how he half starves me. Aunt Jael\nhates him so much that I think there's a chance. Then I needn't run\naway at all. Grandmother would come to fetch me herself.\"\n\nThe letter was duly written that night. I jumped out of bed and hid it\nin the bottom of my chest of drawers, in a far corner of the drawer\nbetween two white cotton Chemises. It would be safe there till the next\nafternoon. After dinner next day I came up to put on my hat and to\nget the letter. I put my hand in the corner underneath the Chemises.\nThe letter was not there! I pulled the top chemise right out. There\nthe letter was after all, but at the other end of the chemise. It had\nbeen moved. The garment was only eighteen or twenty inches long, but\nI remembered perfectly I had put the letter at the outside-end of the\ndrawer and now it was right at the other end of the chemise, near the\nmiddle of the drawer. Yet there was my handwriting, there was the\nenvelope: no one had tampered with it. It must be my over-suspicious\nmind. Aunt Martha had been tidying my clothes, or putting the clean\nwashing away and so had moved the letter without seeing anything....\nWe posted it that afternoon. In a couple of days came my Grandmother's\nreply.\n\nThe first sentence made my heart sick. \"Your uncle writes me--tells me\nhe has destroyed an untruthful letter, full of untruthful complaints\nthat you had written me without his knowledge--how grieved he and\nyour Aunt Martha are--how they do everything to make you happy--your\nAunt Jael is grievously annoyed--your loving Grandmother is\ndisappointed--Always come to me, my dear, for help, but don't give way\nto discontent so easily. Reflect always what your dear mother had to\nput up with. Take up thy cross and walk!\"\n\nThis letter Uncle Simeon never asked to see, but he had had one for\nhimself from my Grandmother by the same post. He said nothing, but\nlooked at me from time to time with malicious triumph, meaning \"Revenge\nis near; it will be sweet. Wait till this fine young friend of yours is\nout of the way. One has a whip, you remember, ha, ha, one has a whip!\"\n\nA few days later Robbie had a letter from his Uncle Vivian announcing\nhis return to England for December 30th and arranging for Robbie to\nleave Torribridge on New Year's Eve, now only three weeks away.\n\nNew Year's Eve then was the day, and though I did eventually fly from\nTorribridge to Tawborough within a few hours of the time we fixed, it\nbefell very differently from anything we had planned or foreseen.\n\n\nHeaven was dark; yet the clouds at last had begun to break. For always,\neternally, I could re-make the moments that had been, and live and cry\nand laugh and love it over again.\n\nI pretended his arm was round me each night as I fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII: CHRISTMAS NIGHT\n\n\n\"What do you do for Christmas?\" asked Robbie a day or two later. \"It's\nonly a week tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What do you mean--_do_ for Christmas?\"\n\n\"Why, people coming to stay, and a party perhaps. You know.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? The only party we ever had was on Aunt Jael's\nseventieth birthday and that's in August.\"\n\n\"It must be different at your house from anywhere else. People have\na jolly sort of time, a lot of people in the house and that kind of\nthing.\"\n\n\"There was something about it in Westward Ho! the book _he_ stole from\nme and burned just before you came. It said something about 'happy\nsports and mummers' plays,' and cakes and ale and some word like\nflapdragons. It's what worldly people do, I suppose, and sinners, but\nnot us; I've never heard of it with the Saints.\"\n\nRobbie was too wise to attack priggery-piety in the open. \"I don't\nknow about all that. You do talk funnily; your Grandmother seems to be\ndifferent from other people. You _must_ know all the special things you\ndo at Christmas, all the special things you eat--\"\n\n\"I don't. What are they?\"\n\n\"Oh, roast goose and turkey and plum-pudding and mince pies. Then for\ntea the big Christmas cake, crammed with raisins and covered with\nalmond paste and icing sugar with crystallized fruit on top and those\nlittle green bits like candied peel--not really candied peel, it's some\nname I forget, anyway it's nice. If you're a little boy you're allowed\nto stay in the dining-room all the same and eat all the walnuts and\ndates you want and drink a little port or madeira! What do _you_ have\nfor Christmas dinner?\"\n\n\"Hash,\" I replied enviously, \"and a roly-poly pudding with no jam, or\nhardly any, for afterwards.\"\n\nIncredulity seemed to struggle with pity in his mind.\n\n\"I'm sorry. It sounds so funny. I didn't know there were people like\nthat. The villagers are just the same. Mrs. Richards down at the\nBlue Dragon makes the biggest Christmas cake I've ever seen, lovely\nbluey-looking icing with preserved cherries in it, those big red ones,\nand almond paste an inch thick. Everywhere it's the great day in the\nyear for feasting.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I asked. \"Why should Christmas Day be the great day for\nfeasting? It's the day Jesus was born; why should that make people\nguzzle? A funny way of keeping His birthday, eating and drinking. I\nknow what it is, it's what the Papists do: eat all day. That's it,\nit's Popish.\" My voice rose combatively in the good cause of plain and\nProtestant living, hash and heaven.\n\nWeakly or wisely, he skirted the theological issue. \"Don't be silly.\nBesides it's not only what you eat yourself. At Christmas time you\nalways give a lot away to the poor people. Uncle Vivian gives heaps of\nlogs and firewood and coal all round the village, and gives geese to\nthe tenants and heaps of other things; giving things away is a good\nenough way of keeping Christmas, isn't it? There are presents. You get\npresents, don't you?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\nHere I was wrong, for on Christmas morning a parcel came addressed to\nMiss Mary Lee. It was the first I had ever received, except some new\nwinter underclothes Grandma had sent me from Tawborough, and I undid it\neagerly. Inside was a box of colours. I found from a little note inside\nthe cover of the box that Great-Uncle John had sent me this in addition\nto his usual half-sovereign. This made me ponder. I had heard vaguely\nof his half-sovereign at long intervals of time, but had never thought\nof it in the light of a Christmas present. I had never seen or touched\nit; it was \"put by\" or otherwise dimly dealt with by Grandmother and\nAunt Jael.\n\nThis box of colours was the finest thing I had yet possessed. No\ndoubt the art of mixing paint was then in its infancy, and this box\nprovided me with but a few of the simplest colours; no doubt a mere\nhalf crown box of today is superior both in number of colours and\nquality of paint. No doubt, but ignorance was bliss; no such odious\ncomparisons came to cloud my joy. I had never seen a paint box before\nexcept through a shop window; and now I had one in my own hands and was\ngloating with all the joy of proprietorship over the twelve little pans\nbefore me and the high adventurous names with which each was labelled.\n\nGamboge, yellow-ochre; cobalt, Prussian blue; green-bice, Hooker's\ngreen; carmine, crimson-lake; raw-sienna, burnt-sienna; sepia and ivory\nblack. There was also a mysterious little tube tucked away in a niche\nat one end and labelled Chinese white, the contents of which oozed\nout when pressed, like a white tape-worm. These names were a delight.\nCarmine: the colour which Brother Quappleworthy painted his sins in\ndiscourse. Crimson-lake: which called up a vision of a great sea of\nPrecious Blood with wave-crests of scarlet-foam.\n\nRobbie had several presents: a box of soldiers, a picture book, some\nsweetmeats and money.\n\n\"That's much less than usual,\" he said, not too kindly. \"I expect\nthere's more waiting for me at Uncle Vivian's.\"\n\nAlbert was bare and giftless, for his half sovereign from Great-Uncle\nJohn meant no more to him than to me, being instantly put (or not put)\ninto \"the bank\" by Uncle Simeon. He was naturally jealous, envied\nRobbie's wealth and luck, cursed his father's meanness in giving him\nnothing, reviled Uncle John for sending me the paint-box as well as\nthe half sovereign, and to himself no corresponding extra. All this\nwell distributed hostility he could vent on me alone. The means of his\nvengeance should be my solitary ewe-lamb. He waited his opportunity.\n\nRobbie went out to dinner, invited by some friends of his uncle's. So\nUncle Simeon brought a cane in to dinner, lodged it on the edge of the\ntable, and allowed me to taste it now and then. I espied neither goose\nnor turkey, cakes nor ale, port nor madeira; though there was a much\nbetter pudding than usual, a suet one made in a basin with sultanas\nand citron peel which bore--alas!--an awful and edible likeness to the\ngenuine popish article. After dinner Aunt Martha, who said she had\na headache, retired to her bedroom to lie down, and later on Uncle\nSimeon went out, his big Bible under one arm and his big umbrella under\nthe other, to expound the former to a bedridden old female Saint he\nvisited twice a week, a second cousin of Brother Atonement Gelder's.\n\nAlbert and I were left alone together in the dining-room. It was\nperhaps not more than three o'clock, but it was a cold, dark day and\nthe room was already dusk. Uncle Simeon was hardly out of the house\nbefore Albert came up to the table at which I was just settling down\nto begin using my treasure, snatched the box away, dipped the biggest\nbrush into my cup of water and began roughly digging it into the pans\nof colour. Then he splashed water over all the pans and made great\nwasteful daubs on the palette.\n\n\"Don't, Albert,\" I pleaded, \"please don't.\"\n\n\"I shall, I shall--ugh\" (his usual grunt), \"nothing will happen to\nme if I do. It's no good your whining, I'm going to spoil it, out of\nspite! because I want to! Try sneaking to father if you dare. Ha, ha, I\nknow what you told Robert Grove about father, nasty little sneaks and\nliars both of you. Father's on my side now, so you won't get much by\ngoing to him; and if you did I'd bang you afterwards.\"\n\nHe took up the cup and poured water into the box, smearing all the\ncolours together with the brush. The little brute was ruining my\ntreasure before my eyes. Appeal was useless, so I made a deft attempt\nto snatch. For reply he struck me heavily with his fist over the ear. I\nscreamed out half in pain, half in rage, and made another snatch. This\ntime, throwing the box on to the ground, he struck me on the shoulder\nwith the full force of his fist and sent me flying. I fell down, half\nstunned for a moment, when another voice broke into the room.\n\n\"You beast, you brute,\" I heard--and saw Robbie, back sooner than we\nexpected. He slammed the door behind him, went straight across the room\nto Albert, and tried to seize his arm.\n\n\"Here, you leave me alone. She hit me first, when I wanted to use\nher filthy paint box, and the mean cat said I shouldn't, and started\nsnatching and scratching so I had to push her away.\"\n\n\"Oh, you liar!\" I cried.\n\n\"Then she banged her paint box on the floor in her rage, and came for\nme again, then I punched her, and serve her right.\"\n\n\"'Tis all lies, lies, lies.\"\n\n\"Believe her, do you?\" sneered Albert, lowering at Robbie, \"she's a\nnice one to believe. Do you know what her father did? I do; ugh, ugh,\nshe's a nice one like he was. Look here, just keep your hands off me.\"\n\nAlbert struck a first blow and the two boys were soon fighting like\nsavages. My head was still aching from the two blows that Albert had\ngiven me; I forgot them and everything else in the excitement of the\nstruggle. Blows on head, face and shoulders were exchanged. With every\nstout one Albert received I exulted; every one of Albert's that hurt\nRobbie hurt me too. Albert was sturdy and strong and even broader than\nRobbie; on the whole he was getting the best of it; I felt sick and\napprehensive. I prayed fervently to God for Robbie to win, promising\nlordly penances and impossible virtues in return. I would give all my\nlife and health to comforting the heathen if Robbie might win. I would\nbe burnt or eaten alive--if Robbie might win. I employed all the magic\nI knew, and counted frenzied thirty-sevens between each blow--for luck\nto Robbie. Prayer is not always answered by return, and Albert's right\nfist now landed a heavy blow on Robbie's left ear, which nearly felled\nhim; he tottered and paled. So did I as I resolved to intervene. I\nwould fight till I fainted--to prevent Robbie being beaten. I clenched\nmy teeth and hovered awkwardly nearer, wondering how to get in my first\nblow (or scratch)--when Robbie recovered suddenly and crashed with his\nfist between Albert's eyes. Now it was the latter's turn to stagger. My\nspirits rose. Now Albert picked himself up again. Both were battered.\nRobbie had a bleeding ear (to match my own), Albert a black eye and\nbroken nose. The fight went on. Robbie began to get the upper hand; I\ncould see the loser's look on Albert's face. \"Robbie will win! Robbie\nwill win!\" said Instinct exulting. I thought for a moment of that tame\nfixture, Susan Durgles versus Seth Baker, when my main emotion was mere\npity for Seth: water to the wine of joy now coursing through my veins\nas I watched Robbie pound Albert more victoriously every moment. Albert\nwas now desperate, came closer, tried to grip Robbie and push him to\nthe ground. For a moment prize fight turned to wrestling bout.\n\nThe harmony of a choir, singing carols on the Quay outside, fell\nsuddenly on our ears. It may have been the Parish Church choir, or a\nglee party from the Wesleyan Chapel: sinners, in any case, as Miss\nGlory would have said. They were singing a carol with a friendly\nwave-like tune, merry, yet sad too, as Christmas songs should be: _It\ncame upon the midnight clear_--though I did not know the words. The\ntune revived the fighting. The boys got free from each other's grip;\nblows were resumed. The end came at last with a swift, terrific stroke\non Albert's shoulder, which knocked him flat. In a second Robbie was\nkneeling on his body and had pinioned his arms. The victim scowled, the\nvictor showed modest pride, the spectator exulted like a savage.\n\n\"There now,\" said Robbie, \"that's what you get for striking a girl.\nWorse another time. Say you're sorry you hit Mary. Say you were a\nbrute.\"\n\nAlbert scowled, growled, made efforts to get free, failed.\n\n\"No good, you'll stay here till you say it; 'I'm sorry I hit Mary and I\nwas a brute.'\"\n\nAlbert wriggled again, perceived that all endeavours would\nbe fruitless, and surrendered. \"Well, then, you great bully.\nSorry--hit--Mary--and--was--brute. There you are, now let me go.\"\n\n\"Not until you've made one more promise, 'I'll never hit Mary again.'\"\n\nFor some reason Albert obeyed with alacrity this time. \"I'll never\nstrike Mary again.\"\n\nRobbie released him, and walked towards the door saying shyly to me:\n\"Come to my bedroom, and help bathe my face; it's awful.\"\n\nI followed him upstairs. Just as we reached the landing Albert came out\nand shouted. \"Ugh, you nasty beasts. I promised I'd never strike Mary\nagain and I won't--never want to see her ugly face again--but I'll see\nthat father does all right. This very night too, as soon as ever he\ncomes in. He'll make you cringe and bleed; he'll make the flesh fly.\nYou too, you bully, you overdressed flashy big--\"\n\nWe went into Robbie's bedroom and stopped to hear no more.\n\n\"It's not much good,\" said Robbie, smiling mournfully, as he washed the\nblood from his ears and face, \"because I shall get hurt much more when\nMr. Greeber comes in. That beast downstairs is sure to set him on. I\nthink he would dare to flog me this time, because he'd be able to say\nto Uncle Vivian that I'd half killed Albert.\"\n\n\"Yes, he'd say 'one felt it one's painful duty after young Master\nRobert's brutal attack on one's own dear son,' and that you had really\nhurt Albert. Which you have,\" I concluded with satisfaction.\n\n\"Still, it'll be nothing to what he'll do to _you_ if he gets you\nalone; so you must get away the same day as me; or sooner would be\nbest.\"\n\n\"No, sooner wouldn't do, because then he'd flog _you_ worse; he'd be\nsure to know you'd helped me get away.\"\n\n\"Yes, my first plan is best; while they're at the station seeing me off\nyou must run away to Tawborough or take the coach, because we've enough\nmoney for that now. Here's the half-sovereign, my present, you know;\nthe half-crown mightn't be enough and I've nothing in between--\"\n\nThe door, opening softly, cut him short. Uncle Simeon, very pale and\nslimy and cat-like--himself at his worst--was followed by Albert, also\nat his worst, with an ugly black eye and an uglier leer.\n\n\"No, father,\" he whined, \"not one; both. Flog 'em both, father, both of\n'em.\"\n\nAlbert's disappointed whine seemed to mean that his father might not\ndare to touch Robbie. I was glad for Robbie's sake; what my own fate\nwould be I hardly dared to think. I shrank from him into the seat of\nthe window sill. He took a long coil of cord out of his pocket, and\ncame towards--not me--but Robbie. What, would you dare? Was Robbie,\nafter all, the victim, and I, if only for the moment, the one to\nescape? I must do myself the justice of noting that for once in my life\nat any rate I was sorry to bear the easier part: I would gladly have\nchosen to take the beating for Robbie, would bravely have played the\nRoyal Prince's whipping-girl. He bound Robbie with the cord hand and\nfoot to the bedpost, his own bedpost of course; for it all took place\nin his bedroom, where Uncle Simeon had surprised us. Uncle Simeon went\nout of the room for a moment, leaving Albert to watch us.\n\nThere was two minutes absolute silence. The three children looked at\neach other. We waited.\n\nHe came back, in his right hand the long heralded whip; a kind of\ncat-o'-nine-tails for domestic use, with five tails only instead of\nnine; these were made of cord, with three knots each at intervals, and\nwere fastened to a piece of thick rope, which Uncle Simeon wielded. An\nevil-looking thing.\n\nRobbie did not wince. He would not while I was by. But I lost all\ncontrol of myself, and, for the first time, burst out openly against\nUncle Simeon. I flew up to him, and with fierce feebleness clutched his\nwrist.\n\n\"Don't you dare touch him,\" I cried, in a treble shriek. \"I dare you to\nwhip him. You cruel, horrible man.\"\n\n\"Cruel horrible man,\" he sneered. \"Bah! A fine one you are to call one\nthat; you, your father's daughter every inch of you. Cruel horrible\nman, forsooth!--Go and call _him_ that, your own dear, kind, loving\nfather who drove your dear mother into an early grave and mocked her\nwhen she was lying there; a heartless whoremongering beast who spent\nall the time he spared from stews and brothels in hounding her to death\nwith his cruelties; unfit to untie the shoe of a humble Christian like\noneself, frail and sinful though one doubtless is. You're like him,\nbody and soul. Come, loose hold!\"\n\nThe vile words stung me for a moment, but when he wrenched my hand\nfrom his wrist, scratching at it savagely with his nails, I cried with\nredoubled fury: \"Don't you dare to whip him, don't you dare.\"\n\n\"Whip him? Whip him?\" he purred with bland enquiry, \"Who can be meant\nby 'him'? Not Master Robert surely? One would not dream of punishing\none whose only sin is to be led into evil paths by another. One must\ntie him up, to be sure, lest he should be led into the evil path of\ninterfering with a certain little duty one owes to one's Lord, one's\nlittle son, and one's own poor self. Quick, off with your blouse and\nskirt!\"\n\nHe gnashed his teeth. Even at that moment it fascinated me to watch\nhow curiously the muscles under his cheek twitched when he was on\ncruelty bent. There must be a cruelty muscle.\n\nI stood before him in vest and petticoat, pale and limp with fright,\na pitiable, cowering object: the sort of rabbit the serpent loves.\nI had felt and seen hard blows that same day; now too Aunt Jael's\nmasterpieces flitted in dour procession through my mind: the rope end,\nthe day I sucked the acid drops, the three blows of the thorned stick\nafter Robinson Crewjoe, the great flogging with the butt end of her\nstick when I said that Proverbs was the nastiest book in the Bible.\nThese were as nothing to what was coming now. I lifted my eyes and for\none second looked into his. I shall never again, please God, see a look\nso cruel, so craven, so cad-like. There was spite in it, and hate, and\nfear. Yet his fear was as nothing to mine.\n\nWhip in hand he came towards me to catch hold. There could be no hope.\nAunt Martha was not to be seen; in any case what could she have done?\nAlbert was kneeling hopefully on the bed, Robbie's bed, to get a better\nview of the sport. Robbie was bound hand and foot, looking hate at\nUncle Simeon; wretchedness, sympathy and encouragement at me. His lips\nwere tight together so that he should not cry. Here was Simeon Greeber\napproaching me. He looked like the devil; the idea seized me, he _was_\nthe devil, the Personal Devil himself; now I knew. But here lay hope:\nthrough the devil's enemy, the Lord God Almighty. Moved by an insane\nimpulse, I went down on my knees on the bare floor.\n\n\"Oh, God,\" I cried, \"save me from him, now, somehow! Save me, and if it\nbe Thy will, strike him dead!\"\n\nI was cut rudely short. He clutched my shoulder, his claw striking cold\nand damp through my vest, and pulled me roughly to my feet.\n\n\"My Lord, my Lord, how she blasphemes! One will avenge it, Lord, one\nwill avenge.\" He dragged me into the middle of the room.\n\nIn that moment a strange thing happened. The sudden sweetness of an\nold Christmas hymn smote our ears. It was the carollers again: they\nmust have moved up the Quay, for now they were singing just outside the\nhouse:\n\n\n    Hark the herald angels si-ing\n    Glory to the new-born King--\n\n\nFor an instant he was unnerved, but for an instant only, and with\n\n\n    Peace on earth and mercy mi-ild\n\n\nthe first stroke of the whip fell across my back.\n\nThe memory comes back to me in nightmare. I see the honey-yellow face\nghastly against the growing darkness of the room. I see the coarse\nlittle brute gloating on the bed. I see the young prisoner at the\nbed-post flushed with rage and pity, biting his lips manfully. I\nhear the voices of the singers out on the Quay mocking me with merry\nChristmas hymns. To this day I can never hear the opening notes of The\nHerald Angels without starting back, and living over again for a moment\nall the horror. For all my fear and bodily agony, I would not cry out.\nI would not give Robbie the pain nor Uncle Simeon the pleasure. The\nwhip tore my legs and body and back. I bled all over. He thrashed me\ntill I was faint with pain; till he could thrash no longer. Then he\nkicked me and I fell half-dazed to the ground, where as a final tribute\nfrom his humble if Christian person he spat in my face. As I lay I\nheard vaguely the singers outside. The voices now seemed dreamlike and\nfar-away in their last triumphant unison:\n\n\n    Mild he lays His glory by-y,\n    Born that man no more may di-ie,\n    Born to raise the sons of earth,\n    Born to-o give them second birth.\n    Hark, the Herald Angels sing,\n    Glory-y to the new-born-king!\n\n\nIn the following silence I heard his voice, far away too it seemed.\n\"Yes, you'd better go at once; dear Mr. Vivian Fortescue would not have\nyou stay another day to be so corrupted.\"\n\nI felt another kick. \"Come, up with you now to bed.\"\n\nI rose painfully, but was too weak to stand, and tumbled. Albert\nguffawed. At last I got up and crept to the door.\n\n\"Good night,\" he smiled. \"Bid us good night, if you please. Let there\nbe no malice, no evil rage in your heart, for this little _foretaste_\nof correction. Let there be no evil spirit of revenge. One harbours\nnone oneself. One forgives, forgives freely. Later on when Master\nRobert is gone away one may _begin_ to think of the just punishment\nthat is due. One must not shrink, grievously though it pains one. It\nis the Lord's will, and His will be done. One forgives you, my child,\nforgives you freely, despite all the wickedness and trouble you have\nbrought into the house. One forgives, yet one must punish.\"\n\nI crawled upstairs to my bedroom. I had only my vest to take off--or\ntear off, for it was stuck to me with blood. When I was naked I looked\nat myself by the candle-light in the long wardrobe mirror. My white\nbreastless little body was covered with blood and dark strokes and\ngreat weals. I bathed the worst places with the ice-cold water in my\nbasin and then rubbed in plenty of the mixed whitening with which\nGrandmother had supplied me. It relieved me a little, and I got into\nbed.\n\nSoon the door opened. My heart beat fast. It was only Aunt Martha,\nbringing my Christmas supper. Not flap-dragons, nor raisins nor almond\npaste; just a small basin of mutton gruel.\n\n\"I'm sorry you've been so naughty, child, and have had to be corrected.\"\n\nShe produced two apples craftily from her pocket, put them on the\nbedside pedestal with the gruel, and went out. I did not touch them. I\nwas too sick and wretched to eat.\n\nNor could I sleep. The long night began; pain, hate and wretchedness\npossessed me, first one more than another, and each in turn. My rough\nwoollen nightgown chafed my sores; the bed, which was never a soft\none, hurt me everywhere. My whole body smarted and ached. Why had I to\nsuffer such pain? Why was I starved and bullied and abused and beaten\nand half-killed? Why had a man, professing to be one of the Lord's own\npeople, the right to flog me so? Oh, the tyrant, I could only hear\nto think of him by picturing to myself a glorious day when my turn\nwould come, when I would cat-o'-nine-tail him till he fainted and bang\nhis face against a stone wall till his pale features were one red\nindistinguishable mush. Hate, hate, a bitter ointment, had eased my\npain; hate for him, hate for the world, and by silly bitter moments the\nDevil's temptation to hate God. From hate for the tyrant I came to pity\nfor the victim, which was self-pity, so sweet a misery that it drove\naway all other trouble. I was the wretchedest of all God's creatures,\nthe wretchedest being since Creation. For me all things were unjust.\nRobbie and Albert were never treated as I was; in this alone were they\nalike, and all children save me alike. Every little child I saw in the\nstreet was happy, free, well-treated. Every one else had brothers and\nsisters, and friends--and a mother.\n\nThe old new bitterness returned; why had my mother been taken away? She\nwould have protected me and cherished me. I tried to think more clearly\nthan ever before what she would have looked like if still alive; like\nGrandmother, I fancied, with the same kind gentle face, but taller and\nyounger and warmer. I should have nestled to her bosom, she would have\ntaken me in her arms. I should have comforted her. She would have loved\nme. The agony of the thought was torture. I needed her to madness. I\ncould lie down no longer. I knelt up in bed and my soul cried out for\nher. Involuntarily my voice was crying too, \"Mother, mother!\"\n\nI uttered the words without knowing, as it were, that I spoke; they\nwere wrung from me without my consent; it was my soul not my mind which\nspoke. And I knew this time that the prayer would be answered; I had\nthe sure supernatural instinct that my mother was coming to me. She\nhad been mouldering in Tawborough graveyard for ten years now, yet\nI knew she was coming. I did not call again, but waited in intense\nexpectation. I clasped my hands in an agony of hope.\n\nShe came. Right up to the bedside she moved in a white robe. She spoke.\nHer voice seemed nearer to me than if it had been at the bedside;\ninside me, in my very soul. Mother was with me, in me, around me.\n\n\"I am here, Mary, I love you. You want to know that I love you, and I\nhave come to show you that I do.\"\n\nThe darkness was made radiant by the white figure before me. I was\nbathed in a new presence, and I knew that it was love. I was still\nkneeling on the bed and my face was on a level with my mother's. I\nbent forward to fulfil my supreme need; I went nearer, my arms were\nclosing round her--and she was gone.\n\nMy arms closed round empty space. I came back to reality. I was\nkneeling on the cold bed. And she was gone. The feeling of her presence\nfaded away; the sense of love and comfort was abiding. It abides with\nme still. I was sad, forlorn, but happy to think she had gone back\nto heaven, and that she loved me enough to come ten million miles to\ncomfort me. She had shown me the truth of the resurrection, of the\nimmortality of the soul; and something far greater, the truth of love.\n\nHate, pain and weariness were forgotten in the joy of my mother's love,\nI nestled in it, sheltered in it, clasped it to me, and soon it was\nwooing me to sleep.\n\nThen--a soft tread in the room--and I was wide awake in a flash. The\nmoon did not light the corner of the room by the door, but I seemed to\nsee a white figure standing there. Was it my angel mother again?\n\n\"Mother,\" I cried faintly. I did not feel the divine sureness of her\npresence I had known before. It could not be. Yet I heard the soft\ntread again. The white form moved nearer.\n\nUncle Simeon! Pity, pity, he had come to flog me naked, torture me in\nthe darkness, rub salt into my wounds as he had threatened; to kill me.\nI hid my face under the bedclothes in terror, then withdrew as quickly\nfor fear he would stifle me beneath them. His ghostlike figure was\nstill there. \"Mother--God--Jesus!\"\n\n\"Mary, don't be frightened.\"\n\nIt was Robbie.\n\nReaction from fear was so strong and overwhelming that for a moment I\ncould not think. The first words I could speak were prompted by the\nfear that had fled, just as the life that has gone enables a tiger\nstill to spring, though shot through the heart a second before.\n\n\"Hush, hush,\" I whispered. \"Don't make a sound. What is it? Why are you\nhere? Think, if he found us! Oh, you frightened me. First, I thought it\nwas Mother, then that it was _him_.\"\n\n\"Mother?\" said Robbie. \"Are you dreaming, Mary? Are you awake properly?\nI've got bare feet, and he can't hear whispering. Besides he's\nsnoring. I listened outside his door and it's nearly midnight.\"\n\n\"Why have you come?\"\n\n\"To tell you I'm going away either tomorrow or the day after. He has\nwritten to Uncle Vivian's housekeeper, Mrs. Venn, telling her to expect\nme back straight away; and he has forbidden me to try to see you before\nI go; dared me to.... This is our only chance, Mary. I overheard him\nsaying that tomorrow morning very early, before breakfast, he's going\nto lock you in the attic and keep you locked there till after I'm gone\naway. Well--I came to tell you that--and--to say good-bye.\" He paused\nand took courage. \"And to tell you that when I'm a man I've made up my\nmind to come back and beat him till he bleeds as he has made you bleed.\"\n\nHe stopped and waited. I knew what he was waiting for. I trembled,\nshook like an aspen leaf; my heart, soul, brain, were all aflood with\nwhat he longed for me to say.\n\n\"Why don't you come nearer?\" huskily. He came a little nearer and\nwaited again, pretending, for all the world like a grown human being,\nthat he did not see the invitation he longed for.\n\n\"You are cold,\" I said (truth ready to my hand for use). \"Come and lie\nunder the coverlet.\" The first word over, it was easier.\n\n\"It must be hurting you horribly,\" he said. He stood by the bedside in\na last moment of hesitation.\n\n\"_Come_,\" I repeated. He climbed on the bed beside me. \"Yes, it hurts\nbadly. Robbie, come nearer.\"\n\nThen he put his arms round me; I was half out of the bedclothes; but we\nwere warm together under the coverlet. His curly head touched mine, his\nsoft boyish cheek gently rubbed against my own. This was what he had\ncome to do. This was what I had waited to know.\n\nHere was love again. It was true. It was sweet beyond belief.\n\nThat is many years ago. Since then I have known many glorious things. I\nsay still that this moment, when he placed his boyish arms around me,\nwas the holiest and happiest of my life.\n\nI was crying new tears, not of hate nor misery, but joy. Love opens\nthe floodgates; and I was surrounded with love, bathed in it; love in\nheaven and love on earth; angel mother and human boy. The two little\nnight-gowned bodies lay close together, the two children's hearts beat.\nIn one there was affectionate pity, in the other a wild joy; in both\nthe high happiness of love. This is a joy so pure, that when older we\ncan never know it again. We kissed each other again and again; eagerly,\ntenderly, wildly. The pent-up passion of my bitter heart poured forth;\nI strained him tenderly in my arms, he strained me in his. We were\nhappy, far too happy to speak. His eyes were bright and tender, his\ndear face transfigured. We forgot everything, except that we loved each\nother.\n\nThe church clock sounded midnight.\n\nRobbie broke the silence nervously. \"I must go--soon. We shall have\nto say good-bye, shan't we? It mayn't be safe much longer. Don't\nforget you must escape from the attic somehow; break the door open or\nanything. Find out from Mrs. Greeber exactly when I'm going. I thought\nof your going tonight when I was still here to help you, but you can't;\nhe has bolted all the doors and locked them and taken away the keys. He\nknew we might try. Oh, how I'll flog him when I grow up.\"\n\n\"He'll be old then, and yellower and wrinkled instead of smooth.\"\n\n\"I don't care. I'll flog him all the same.... Get a screw-driver or\nsomething and hide it when you are up in the attic. Then when we're at\nthe station you must break the lock and fly. I'll leave the money under\nyour bedroom carpet in the corner next to the door, let's say four\ninches in--\"\n\nThere was a sound; Robbie started up. \"Oh, that's only the floor\ncreaking. Still, it's late.\"\n\n\"Don't go, Robbie.\"\n\n\"You know I don't want to, but I'll have to. When I'm older I'm not\ngoing to forget. We mayn't meet for years and years, but we shall see\neach other again somewhere, I know we shall. We must try to remember\neach other ever so clearly. Isn't there anything we can do to make it\nseem we're near together when we're really far apart?\"\n\n\"I know. Every year exactly at this minute, a few minutes after\nmidnight on Christmas night, we'll think hard of each other, shut our\neyes, clench our fists, and think terribly hard. Then it will seem that\nwe're really right by each other; you'll believe I'm in the room with\nyou, and I'll believe you are. I shall wait till just after midnight,\nthen try to think of nothing else in all the world but you. I shall\nthink of you now as you are this minute--kiss me, it will be better to\nremember by--yes, hard, like that--and then I'll pray 'God, oh God,\nmake Robbie be with me.' He will help it to happen. People who are away\nfrom you can be with you like that, even dead people. My mother came\ntonight. I saw her and she spoke to me. I called out knowing she would\ncome, and she came. You will too. But you must believe with all your\nheart that it's going to happen; then it will. I shall think you are\nwith me; then you will be. Of course I shall think of you other times,\nevery day I expect, and always when I'm not happy, but only Christmas\nnight in this special way. It's too special to do often. Will you too?\nRemember, every Christmas night, just after midnight, when you're lying\nin bed, however far away you are, and every year, always, think with\nall your soul of me and of our being together just as we are tonight.\nThen we shall be together again really, so that we shall always know\none another whatever happens; always love each other, always be able to\nkiss. Promise, will you try?\"\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" he whispered.\n\nFor another few minutes we lay quietly in each other's arms. We were\ntogether that night perhaps one hour in all; an hour in which my whole\nsoul changed. At last he had to go. Though he only whispered, I could\nhear that the whisper was husky. His little body trembled in my arms.\n\n\"Good-night, Mary.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear.\" I hugged him harder than ever to me. I\nwould not let him go.\n\nThen the good-bye kiss, sweetest of all, too sad for tears. His soft\nboy's lips brushed mine; it seemed too that they touched the tendrils\nof my heart and made it blossom like the garden of lilies you read of\nin Solomon's Song. A spirit of loveliness filled me. He got up; now it\nwas last good-bye. I saw his face for a moment in the beam of moonlight\nthat came slantwise through my window. For many years that vision was\nthe chief treasure I had: a little boy in a long white nightgown,\na head of tousled curls, a bright face flushed with joy and tears,\nradiant with my embrace, radiant with love for me.\n\n\"Good-night, Mary, good-night. I'll never forget you; I'll always love\nyou.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Robbie.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII: NEW YEAR'S NIGHT\n\n\nI awoke next morning to see Aunt Martha standing by my bedside.\n\n\"You're to get up at once. Your uncle says you are to spend a week in\nthe attic for your naughtiness, so get up and dress quickly. I'll come\nback to take you in a few minutes. Your uncle says you're to go before\nbreakfast, now, at once, so that you can speak to nobody.\"\n\nRobbie had heard aright.\n\nI was still very sore; my nightgown stuck to me here and there with\ndry blood, and hurt me as I tore it off. I dressed, and was ready when\nAunt Martha returned. In the grey of a damp winter dawn I followed her\nupstairs. No one else was stirring. The unused, airless smell of the\nattic seemed more unpleasant than usual in the cold: an atmosphere at\nonce frozen and stuffy. A mattress had been put on the floor; there\nwere no bedclothes or coverlets. The room was bare except for a few\nboxes and old picture frames in one corner, the rusty old fender that\nalways stood end upwards against the wall, and one rickety backless old\nchair.\n\n\"Here's a cloak to wrap round you in the night. Your uncle said I\nwasn't to leave one.\" She went away.\n\nAll day I was left alone. Twice Aunt Martha came up with a bowl of\ngruel and a dry crust, but (evidently under orders) she said nothing.\nIt was so cold that the cloak could not prevent my getting numbed. I\nlay huddled up on the mattress all through the day, thinking, thinking,\nthinking.... Now that the first glow of the Wonder Night had passed\naway, there came a reaction, and I was gnawing away once more at all\nmy bitter memories and hates. Pain, too, was governing me; my aching\nbody was half numbed with cold, especially my legs and feet, which the\ncloak was not long enough to cover, huddle as I might. I kept my soul\nwarm--and body too to some degree--by hugging to me the loves that now\nwere mine. I lived the time spent with my mother and with Robbie over\nand over and over again: every gesture, every kindness, every kiss.\nFor all my unhappiness and physical misery I could never again be so\nblankly, harbourlessly miserable as before. In my darkest moments I now\nknew that there were places of comfort to which I could fly.\n\nI wondered what was going on in the house downstairs. It was night-time\nnow; tomorrow morning Robbie would be going and I should be alone with\nUncle Simeon. Escape I must. I climbed on to the rickety old chair and\nopened the skylight window. I looked out and observed that the skylight\nwas of a level piece with the sloping roof. I could see nothing beyond\nthe edge of the roof; the sense of the great drop beyond that edge came\nto me, and as I pictured myself falling, I shuddered. That way there\nwas no escape.\n\nThen, for one second, as I looked down the sloping roof, came a sudden\nnotion to throw myself over. It was a physical impulse only, and passed\nas quickly as it came. It would have stayed longer had I been the least\nbit tempted. But I could never see the sense of suicide. I saw no good\nin killing myself, because I believed in immortality. By killing myself\nI should only be ensuring an Eternity in hell instead of an Eternity\nin heaven. The little boy in one of the new novels makes away with\nhimself because he believes that there is nothing beyond death, and\nthat by killing himself in this world he has killed his soul for ever.\nIf I had believed that I too might have been tempted. But my creed was\nin immortality, from which there is no escape. Nor had I the physical\ncourage which suicide requires. And it would steal my chance of meeting\nmy mother in the next world and Robbie in this.\n\nI lay down on my mattress, seeking vainly, like a mouse in a trap, some\nnew way of escape. During the first night in that cold dreary attic\nI slept hardly at all. The rats frightened me; I could not sleep for\nfear they would crawl over my face once it was still. Surely Robbie\nwould send some sign, some message. None came. Later I must have slept;\nfor again it was Aunt Martha who woke me when she came to bring my\n\"breakfast.\" She was startled to see how starved with cold I was, and\ncame back with a big warm blanket. It was a brave thing for her to do.\n\n\"Robert Grove is going, isn't he?\" I asked casually, steadying my voice.\n\n\"Your Uncle thought he was going today, but it has been put off till\nnext Tuesday, New Year's Day, when his uncle returns from abroad. Till\nthen your uncle says you must stay here.\"\n\nThere I stayed. Four walls, locked door, and precipitous roof baffled\nall my notions of escape. The best thing I could think of was a rush\nfor the door when Aunt Martha came with my food; but I saw this would\nnot be much good. She would raise the alarm, and he would catch me\nbefore I could get clear of the house.\n\nFive days passed, long, cold and wretched; though with the big blanket,\nand the forbidden extras Aunt Martha contrived sometimes to convey me\nwith my meals, I managed to keep alive, and kept, in my fashion of\nhealth, reasonably well. No message came from Robbie. No doubt Uncle\nSimeon was watching him day and night. But still--.\n\nI was not sure of the passage of time, but I reckoned one night that it\nwas New Year's Eve. The last night, and still no message. Tomorrow he\nwas going: this time for certain, and for ever; I should be left alone\nwith my tormentor. Half in terror (of Uncle Simeon when he should get\nme alone), half in hope (of a sign from Robbie), I lay awake through\nthe whole of that night. It struck midnight. The bells rang out;\nmerrily, mockingly. It was New Year's night as I had thought. All over\nthe town people, even Saints, were wishing each other a Happy New Year.\nThe bells were still. I lay awake waiting for something to happen,\nfor I knew it would. All the night-time sounds of an old house were\naround me. Boards creaked, roof shook, rats scampered. Sometimes I was\nstartled by a metallic sound as a rat scampered over the tin plate on\nwhich Aunt Martha brought my bread.\n\nThere--that was a new sound! That tapping noise at the door was never\na rat. It seemed low down just where a rat might scratch, but that was\nthe rap of human knuckles, faint but unmistakable. Who? Why? I crawled\nout of the blanket, lay down on the bare boards and whispered under the\ndoor.\n\n\"Robbie, is that you, Robbie?\"\n\nThere was no reply except the stealthy sound of something being pushed\nunder the door. I saw a white thing that looked like a small envelope.\nI touched it and felt inside the paper a hard round thing. It was the\nhalf-sovereign he had promised me.\n\n\"Robbie, Robbie, thank you! Are you there? Robbie, Robbie.\"\n\nThere was no reply. I heard cautious footsteps, with a long interval\nbetween each, going down the creaky old stairs. How I wished he had\nwhispered one word, one word. He had thought I was asleep and had not\ndared to speak loud enough to wake me. Never mind, it was better that\nthe last thing was Christmas Night's perfect good-bye.\n\nI clutched the envelope and mourned the weary hours of waiting until I\ncould read it, for I had no candle. I kept my eyes staring wide open\nto prevent myself falling asleep. I could feel that there was a letter\nas well as money inside the envelope. I knew it would help me; I was\nimpatient to know how. So much did it raise my hopes, that I fell to\nthinking of the coach-ride to Tawborough, of what Grandmother would say\nand how Aunt Jael would receive me.\n\nAs I stared through the darkness I became gradually aware of a ray of\nlight along the ceiling. It did not come from the skylight, for there\nwas no moon; and it ran horizontally along the ceiling, not down into\nthe room. I got up and climbed on to the chair to investigate. Then I\nguessed. I had often noticed in a corner in the top of the wall (the\ncorner farthest from the door) a little wooden door a foot or more\nsquare; it did not exactly fit the space in the wall and there was a\nthin aperture between the bottom of this little door and where the wall\nbegan. It was through this slit, not more than half an inch wide, that\nthe strip of light came. I pulled at the handle and the little door\nopened.\n\nTen yards or so away, on a level with my eyes, I saw a square patch\nof brightness. In a flash, I understood; the light from which it came\nwas in Uncle Simeon's attic. There was a hole in the corner of the\ntop of the wall there too, the selfsame square space I had seen when\npeeping through the keyhole. What the holes were for I did not know;\nmost likely to ventilate the room in between. The space mystery which\nhad so often puzzled me was now explained. There was, in between the\ntwo attics which I knew, mine and Uncle Simeon's, another intermediate\ngarret twice as large as either.\n\nInstantly, I formed the resolution of squeezing my way through the\nhole, traversing the long dark attic in between, clambering up the\nother aperture through which the ray of light was streaming, and\nseeing--just what I was too excited to guess, except that I knew that\n_he_ was there. The hole was about eighteen inches square; it was a\ntight squeeze, but thanks to his dieting I managed it. Clambering down\nthe other side was awkward work; I held on to the wall part of the\nhole to prepare for a jump. I knew it was a longish drop; there was no\nconvenient chair on this side, and as I had left my slippers behind\nso as to make as little noise as possible, I hoped the ground was not\ntoo hard. My feet alighted unevenly; the left foot on the corner of a\nbeam stuck edgeways, the right on the level of the floor, which was of\ncourse lower by the width of the beam. I hurt my toe badly. The ray\nof light was only sufficient to show up very dimly the big garret in\nwhich I now stood; I could make out that the floor was traversed by\nlong beams laid edgeways, parallel with the front of the house and thus\nleading from my attic to his. Along one of these I walked; for although\nit was awkwardly narrow, it was better for my stockinged feet than the\nfloor, which I made out to be strewn with pieces of wood, stone and\nplaster. When I got to the other end I found that my objective was too\nhigh; my fingers only just reached the edge of the hole. By standing on\ntiptoe, however, and clutching for all I was worth I managed to lever\nmyself up. Then I looked into the mysterious room.\n\nWhat I saw was unforgettable. On a high cupboard flared a lamp, nearly\non a level with the space through which I was looking. This explained\nhow it was that the light carried right through to the corresponding\nhole in the wall of my attic. In the full glare of the lamp sat Simeon\nGreeber, leaning over a table covered with papers and documents, at\nwhich he peered. He gloated over them, fondled them, sometimes he\nlaughed and breathed hard, and his eyes shone. Then he would stop, cock\nhis head on one side for a moment, and listen anxiously. I watched him,\nfascinated. Round him, on the floor and the table, were many envelopes\nand papers. The wall was some inches thick; to see as much as I could\nI peered further in, so far indeed that if he stood up and looked my\nway he could hardly fail to see me. I noticed the big green box I had\nobserved from the key-hole months before; a heavy door on hinges stood\nwide open; inside were more papers. His face, in the moments when he\nlifted it up, was of a greenish yellow hue in the lamp-light; and his\neyes shone.\n\nIn my interest I had forgotten the awkwardness of my posture; supported\nby my elbows and wrists on the wall part of the hole, with my feet\nhanging in mid-air, my toes perhaps barely touching the wall. Once I\nlost my hold, and clutched convulsively so as not to fall. He heard the\nnoise, lifted his face from the pile in which he was wallowing, and\nlooked round anxiously. I had scared him.\n\n\"No, no, it can't be, it can't be,\" he whispered, endeavouring to\nassure himself of something.\n\nHe returned to his love. Now he rubbed his face sideways against the\npapers, gently, like a friendly cat against your leg.\n\nI resolved to make a noise deliberately, keeping myself far enough back\nnot to be seen, and to listen to what he might say.\n\nIn silence, at night, alone, a sigh is the most awful noise that can\nstrike the human ear. I waited till his face was lifted again for a\nmoment, held myself far enough back so as not to be seen easily, while\nstill seeing him, and uttered a long-drawn agonized sigh. He started up\nwith a cry. His cowardly face was a livid green.\n\n\"Brother, brother\"--it was a terrified whine--\"twelve years ago, twelve\nyears ago.\"\n\n\"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago,\" echoed the watching whisperer.\n\nHe gave a horrible frightened cry, something between a beast's whine\nand howl, dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, turned his terrified\neyes upward, and broke into delirious prayer. His face streamed with\nsweat.\n\n\"Oh, God, God, visit not Thy servant thus. 'Twas all done for Thee, all\nfor Thee, Thou knowest. The gold is all Thine. For Thy name's sake, Oh\nLord, pity Thy faithful, humble servant. _He_, Lord, was a sinner, it\nwas meet that he should go, and that one of Thine own people should\nhold his wealth. He was spending all in sin; it was one's duty, Lord,\none's duty. It was Thou who guidedst one's hand that night, and was\nhe not dying already from the illness with which Thou hadst stricken\nhim? For Thy sake, oh Lord, it was done. Thou knowest it. Not the\nmeanest penny has been spent on worldly pleasures nor evil ways nor\nself, as he, oh Lord, would have spent it. Thou knowest, Thou knowest;\nthe meetings, the missionaries, the work in Thy vineyard amongst Thy\npeople; all that has been spent has been spent in Thy service, and when\nThou callest me to Thee, all will be left for Thy work on earth below.\nAll, oh Lord, all. Thou knowest, Thou knowest. Grant then that he\ntrouble me not thus, grant--\"\n\n\"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago,\" I whispered, more boldly, tasting\ndear revenge, anxious to see to what length of terror and blasphemy\nthis snivelling Thing could go.\n\nI overshot my mark; I whispered a little too loud. He looked quickly up\nto the hole in the wall, and though I shrank back like a flash, for a\nfraction of a second our eyes met.\n\nThen he rushed for the door.\n\nI dropped myself down and ran for dear life back across the beamed room\nto my attic. Feverishly I reviewed the position. He had quite certainly\nseen me and was now rushing to my attic to cut off my retreat. I sped\nacross, sprang up to the aperture, squeezed my way wildly through,\ncalculating all the while, as the quarry does, the number of seconds\nit will take the huntsman to finish him. He would have to fly down the\nstairs from his attic, along the landing, and up the stairs to mine.\nThank God, he had to fetch the key, which I knew was kept somewhere\ndownstairs. This delay saved me. I just had time to squeeze through,\nshut the little door, drop on to the chair, move the chair from\nbeneath, fly to my mattress, and throw the cape around me, before I\nheard the key turning.\n\nHe came in stealthily and stood listening for a second near the door.\nThen he struck a match and lighted the candle he held in his hand.\nI dropped my eyelids so that I could just see him, and affected as\nfar as I could a quiet and regular breathing. He looked first at me,\nthen round the room, evidently baffled. If he had found my mattress\nempty, if I had not flown back on the wings of terror, he would have\nhad the pleasure of trapping me like a rat in the dark roof-room, the\nrelief of a natural explanation of the strange whisperings, and at\nlast a genuine excuse for beating me sick. But here I was, sleeping\npeacefully. I could feel him looking at me with intense hate. He hated\nme almost as much for bringing him here on a fool's errand as if he had\nthought I was really guilty. He bent down and peered more closely at my\nface. Instinctively my hand was clasped against my heart.\n\nThe door opened and Aunt Martha came in, shivering slightly in her\nnightdress.\n\n\"You here, Simeon? I thought I heard the child cry out.\"\n\n\"So did oneself. One came to see if anything were the matter; but she\nsleeps calmly enough.\" The lie saved him.\n\n\"Come, Martha, my dear,\" he said, as he closed the door, \"one will deal\nwith her tomorrow.\"\n\nThere, however, he was wrong.\n\nThe sights of the past half hour had of course excited me beyond\nmeasure, but I already reflected that they could be put to use; a very\nhandy lever to turn Aunt Jael's wrath from me to him. Once again, _how_\nwas I to get to Aunt Jael? I reckoned that hours must still pass before\nit was light enough for me to read Robbie's letter. I got up again from\nthe mattress to sit on the chair and await the dawn. My feet crunched\nagainst something; it was a box of matches Uncle Simeon must have\ndropped in his excitement. By striking these one after another I read:\n\n\n    DEAR DEAR MARY: Here is the money for the coach. I am going\n    tomorrow morning. The door is bolted, it is no good that way, but\n    I have found a way. You wait till eleven o'clock tomorrow morning,\n    that will be the morning you find this, then get out by the little\n    window in the roof, it is quite safe I have made sure. There is a\n    drain pipe begins at the very top where the sloping part of the\n    roof stops, you must climb down that, it gets you down into the\n    back yard, and the back yard door is not locked, I've taken the\n    key. Then take the coach or run or anything to Tawborough. Get away\n    from here, that's all, you must. There is _no_ danger, it will be\n    quite easy to climb down, you'll not hurt. I am always, always\n    going to think of you and next Christmas we will meet properly like\n    you said.\n\n    Your loving\n    ROBBIE.\n\n    P. S. Happy New Year.\n\n\nI kissed the letter.\n\nThere was no time to be lost. I wrapped Aunt Martha's cape round me\nand put on my shoes,--indoor slippers without a strap, poor enough\nfootwear for an eight mile walk. I clambered on to the chair and\nlifted the heavy handle of the sky-light window. The damp air of a raw\nwinter's night crept into the room.\n\nHow I ever got to the ground, I do not know. Somehow I slithered down\nthe sloping roof till my feet touched the ledge Robbie had spoken of;\nsomehow I found the drain pipe, and somehow I clambered down. The yard\ndoor was open as he had said, and I walked through it into the deathly\nsilent street, breathing a sigh of intense relief that I remember to\nthis day. I broke immediately into a run, that I might put between\nme and that accursed house as much distance with as small delay as\npossible; when I was halfway across the old bridge I looked back at it,\ndimly silhouetted against the winter's night.\n\n\"Good-bye Robbie!\" I called.\n\nI crossed the bridge and climbed the hill. Very soon I was foot-sore;\nthe toe that had caught on the beam in the roof-room began to bleed,\nand my shoes kept slipping off. I was cold, hungry, sore, cramped and\nfaint. The cold slow rain, somewhere between drizzle and sleet, beat\nupon my face. By all the tenets of melodrama my escape should have been\nthrough deep crisp snow with the valiant horned moon astride the sky.\nThere was no moon, and sleet is crueller than snow. After a while, I\nlost one of my shoes, turned back, peered about for it, was unable to\nfind it; kicked away the other and ran along in my stockinged feet.\nBoth feet were soon bleeding. After a mile or so, when I could run no\nfurther, I trudged or rather hobbled along, keeping to the middle of\nthe road, which was the easiest and least muddy part. At moments the\ntemptation to sit down was almost irresistible; sleep more than half\npossessed me. I clenched my teeth and kept on, will power eking out\nwhat little physical force was left. I prayed continuously.\n\nAfter perhaps three or four hours, though it seemed unending years, I\nsaw ahead of me the first roofs of Tawborough. I limped through the wet\nsilent streets of the town, up Bear Street on to the Lawn, and through\nour garden gate. I pulled the bell, and then with a wretchedness and\nweariness I could not resist now that my goal was reached, sank down\nupon the doorstep.\n\nImmediately I must have fallen asleep, for it seemed that I awoke from\nfar away to see my Grandmother in her red dressing-gown and funny\nnightcap standing before me.\n\n\"It's me--Mary. I've come back, Grandmother, because he would have\nkilled me. I've walked all night, and I'm so tired.\"\n\nI rose to my feet, and fainted in her arms. Then I remember no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX: BEAR LAWN AGAIN\n\n\nI awoke to find myself in my Grandmother's bed. Evening was darkening\nthe room. Uncle Simeon had already come--and gone.\n\nPrecisely what had taken place I was not told, but according to Mrs.\nCheese neither my Grandmother nor my Great-Aunt had minced their words.\nAunt Jael, particularly, must have been in awful form. Though I had\nnot yet told my tale, my condition must have spoken for itself; and\nif Aunt Jael's sympathy for me was not alone sufficient to pitch her\nto the highest key of scorn, the sight of her old enemy made good the\ndeficiency. Even for him he must have cringed and whined exceptionally,\nbeing quite in the dark as to how much I had told. Whether the\nflagellative heart of my Great-Aunt was filled with professional\njealousy or whether the new r\u00f4le of Tender and Merciful appealed to\nher for the moment, all that is certain is this: that she drove Master\nSimeon Greeber with words and scorpions over the doorstep, adding that\nhe was never required to cross it again. Nor did he. I was many years\nolder when next we met: under what circumstances the sequel will shew.\n\nWhen I regained my health, which under my Grandmother's care and\nfeeding was speedily enough, I was surprised to find how little\nGrandmother and Aunt Jael pressed me for details of my life at\nTorribridge. This incuriousness puzzled me: chiefly by contrast with\nwhat my own interest would have been in their place. Details of other\npeople's doings and sayings were to become one of the absorbing\npassions of my life: I was born with my mind at a keyhole. Hence\nTuesday afternoons, when they could be diverted from godly generalities\nto piquant personalities were more welcome than of old; and now that\nI was occasionally allowed to speak a word at Clinkerian ceremonies,\nI became quite deft in sidetracking Miss Salvation down the pathways\nof scandal, where Aunt Jael, not too reluctantly, would sometimes\nfollow her. Aunt Jael, to do her justice, was not much of a gossip:\nshe was too selfish, just as my Grandmother was too unselfish, too\ndeeply absorbed in Aunt Jael ever to feel deep interest, even a\nscandal-mongering interest, in other people: while her suspicion that\nher own efforts were capable of similar sacrilegious discussion would\nnot allow her to allow me to talk of Uncle Simeon's beatings and\npersecutions. She felt that however objectionable Uncle Simeon might\nbe, she would not permit me--a child, a subject, a slave--to discuss\nhim. Authority must be upheld, in whatever unpleasant quarters. In the\nTacit Alliance and Trade Union for Cruelty to Children there must be no\nblacklegs.\n\nMy Grandmother was the most incurious woman I have ever known: partly\nbecause of her inherent good nature, which made her regard all chatter\nabout others as unkindly; partly because of her religion, which enabled\nher to see, though I think to exaggerate, the unimportance of earthly\nthings. To every question, every trouble, every accusation, every\nwrong, she would everlastingly reply: \"What will it matter in a hundred\nyears?\" and then, \"Anyhow, 'tis the Lord's will.\" With a character\nthus compounded of kindness, unworldliness and fatalism, Grandmother\nwas never born to pry. It quite irritated me how little she asked me\nabout my life at Uncle Simeon's. I had believed myself the centre of\nthe universe, the victim of the cruellest wrongs in human story; and\nhere was my Grandmother thinking it friendly and loving and sympathetic\nto say \"Don't 'ee brood over it, my dear. Forget it all. 'Twill seem\nlittle in a hundred years from now!\"\n\nApart however from this pique that my miseries should be denied the\nglory of posthumous fame, I was glad that I was left alone with the\npast eight months of my life. I could hide without subterfuge my\nfriendship with Robbie. Naturally, and artfully, I mentioned him\nsometimes.\n\n\"_Such_ a nice little boy, Grandmother; he was really! We liked each\nother--ever so!\"\n\nAlways my favourite form of insincerity: to tell the literal truth,\nwhile conveying by the context or my manner something much less--i. e.\nmorally speaking, not the truth at all. I loved him; I told Grandmother\nI liked him. It was the truth, and a lie.\n\nI also kept hidden in my own breast the chief events of New Year's\nNight.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWithin a few weeks the eight months of Torribridge seemed infinitely\nfar away: as though it were some one else's life I was contemplating\nfrom a distant mountain-peak. I have always found that the more\ncomplete my change of surroundings, the more distant does my previous\nlife immediately become; until some sudden messenger from the earlier\ndays brings it back with a vivid rush. I never lived again the\npresent-moment horror, as it were, of that life with Uncle Simeon until\none day, far ahead, when I realized with frightening suddenness, as I\ngazed at a certain face beside me, that those eyes, that smile, that\ngesture--were his.\n\nI fell back almost insensibly into the old groove of Bear Lawn life:\nthe bare empty-seeming silent house, the long days of loneliness and\ngodliness, pinings and prayers, the two familiar black-clad figures\nin the old familiar horse-hair chairs, the harsh staccato jobations\nproceeding from one side of the fireplace, and the gentler but no less\ncontinual \"Don't 'ee do it's!\" from the other. Torribridge was soon a\nnightmare episode shot through with glad dreams more episodal still.\nThis life in this house that had sheltered my first memories was, after\nall, my real life; was Life. It seemed as though I had never known any\nother; I often cannot remember whether certain things happened before\nor after Torribridge: my Bear Lawn life was all one.\n\nNevertheless a few notable changes marked my return.\n\nFirst of all, I was received as a full member of the Lawn\nconfraternity. Aunt Jael allowed me to go out and play: ay, with\nthis selfsame famous tribe through whose frankness in grappling with\nfundamentals I had been disgraced and sent away.\n\n\"No filth, mind! No low talk. No abominations.\"\n\nNor were there. Filth, low talk and abominations had departed with\nJoseph Jones to his draper's apprenticeship in a big city--this was\none of the large events of my absence--and what Bristol gained,\nTawborough lost. Under the new rule of Laurie Prideaux I heard no\nmore of the talk to which my six weeks under Joe had been accustoming\nme. The change of chieftainship meant a change in the tone of the\nwhole community. Joe bullied and sneered if you wouldn't use his\nwords; Laurie thrashed Ted King for using them. One boy changed the\nmoral outlook of a Lawn; a generation, a town, a world! Under Laurie's\npatronage I was received into full membership. Under which flag?\nAfter a moving discussion, in which arguments charged with the nicest\ntheological insight jostled with mere vulgar prejudice against my\nclothes (this was the Tompkins girl, over-dressed and under-witted\nlittle cat that she was), it was decided that the Chapel League was\nbest fitted to receive me to its nonconformist bosom. I could not help\nfeeling it a come-down that a Saint should be classed, as it were\nofficially, with mere Dissenters: it was, however, the lesser of two\nevils, for the Church of England, after all, was something worse than\n\"mere.\"\n\nI was never much good at the various games, tig, French cricket,\nrounders and the like, which occupied so large a part of Lawn life. The\namorous ones--Kiss in the Ring and Shy Widow--I shunned altogether. I\nwas too serious, or too sensitive, or high-minded, or morbid, to be\nable to regard touch as a plaything sentiment. Laurie and Marcus were\nnice boys, and I liked them, quite definitely; but I refused to respond\nwhen they \"chose\" me for their lady. In these games of sentiment and\nshy surrender, the challenge of choice must be accepted without flush\nor murmur: I could not, so refused to take part. Kissing was too\nprecious a privilege. I cherished it for three people only: my Mother\nwhen I sought the gates of Heaven; myself when on my own lips in the\nlooking-glass I tried to discover the mystery of this world; Robbie,\nwhen I needed Love.\n\nI acquired, however, a certain position of my own in Lawn esteem:\nthe teller of stories. My subject was Aunt Jael; her ways, words and\ndeeds; her rods and ropes; her food and medicine cupboards, her winsome\nunderclothing, awful wrath, and appetite diurnal and nocturnal. I told\nof the beetle and of the Great God; and of far beatings. The Lawn\nlistened, admired and applauded; admitted in me something they did\nnot possess; the power to interest and to amuse. Thus they decided\nmy fate for me, in showing me the thing in which I was different\nfrom and better than others; and Mary Lee, silent and morose by\ninstinct, by upbringing and by environment, set up for life as an\namateur-professional _raconteuse_. That way lay success, and success\nis what we seek. In forcing myself to talk that I might bask in the\namusement of the other children, I gradually lost some of the moodiness\nand glumness of my earlier days; later on in life, in still more\nfavourable surroundings, I lost them altogether: that is, in the face I\nshowed to the world. The simple need of status with the Lawn children\ndrove me to do the one thing I could do: to talk, and so to discover\nmy talent and overlay my original nature. Thus it is ambition that\ntransforms character, rather than character ambition. Thus it was that\nAunt Jael provided me with the capital for my new venture, and paid\nhandsomely for all her oppressions. An eye for an eye, a Lawn laugh for\nevery blow!\n\nThe Elementary Educational Establishment was now beneath my needs, so\nI was transferred from the Misses Clinker (who, while far above vile\npecuniary jealousy, prophesied ill) to the seminary of the Misses\nPrimp. The latter were Saints, obscure but regular at the Great\nMeeting, and socially above the ruck. \"Reg'lar standoffish, wi' the\npride ur the flesh in their 'earts,\" declared Miss Salvation, who saw\nclearly from her altitude far above vile pecuniary jealousy. They\nheld their school in a bleak house with a big bare garden, to the\nnorth of the town, ten minutes or so from the Lawn. The curriculum\nembraced Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, Composition, Grammar, French,\nLiterature (Sacred and Profane), Needlework (Plain and Fancy), Drawing\n(Freehand and Design); Botany and Brushwork; together with \"a thorough\ngrounding in the principles of Salvation.\"\n\nNot to put too fine a point upon it, this last pretension was a lie. A\nBible-reading, usually Kings or Chronicles, read with parrot-quickness\nround the class, one verse to each pupil; a long dry prayer offered up,\nwith eyes gimletted not on heaven but on us, by Miss Prudence Primp;\nand a longer and still drier homily by Miss Obedience Primp, a gaunt\nold lady with a gigantic crinoline and a parched soul and throat--in a\nlater, more worldly age, this allowance of heavenly fare may not seem\nso niggardly; to me, bred as it were in the imperial purple of Grace,\nthe whole performance appeared perfunctory and tepid, and the Primpian\nacquaintance with the principles of salvation positively sketchy. My\nstudies were remarkable only for their unevenness. The net result\nof my inequalities was that I occupied a steady middle-place in the\nweekly marks. I reflected with pride, however, that it was no ordinary\nmiddle-place, the result of humdrum averageness in everything: and I\nwas vainer of being bad at my bad subjects than good at my good ones.\nWere they not stupid subjects in which a quite special unique set-apart\nChosen little girl like myself would not stoop to shine? Tots indeed!\nBrushwork!\n\nI do not recall many events in my school life. Those that recur to me\nare chiefly unpleasant; how some of the girls cribbed and copied and\ncheated and lied; how others giggled sickeningly at the word \"boys,\" or\nmocked shamefully at their mothers and fathers. They were red-letter\ndays when Cissie King, my Lawn enemy, had a fit, foamed at the mouth,\nwent green in the face, was obdurate under basinsful of water, and\nonly came round at the third dose of brandy; or when Miss Obedience\nquarrelled openly with Miss Prudence in front of the whole school,\nand cried \"Leave me, woman!\" Nor can I forget my first day, when Miss\nObedience, as we were leaving after the morning school, asked two of\nthe older girls who lived my way to accompany me home, and I overheard\nthem say to each other \"Not likely! We'll leave her at the school gate;\nwouldn't be seen with her, with her frock all darned and nasty common\nclothes and boots, would you? If anybody should think she belonged to\nus!\" How my cheeks burned, how I hated and loathed those two giggling\nlittle snobs, and still more my own uncomely person and garments. How I\nbrooded for days and gnawed at the shame. These are the real events of\na child's life; they sound the depths of human passion: shame, jealousy\nand hate.\n\n\nOne other major event followed close upon my return. Wedding Bells!\nFor five and forty years had Miss Salvation Clinker been pursuing\nBrother Brawn; now the long chase was ended, and the quarry at\nlast secured. She was seventy-seven, he but seventy-one. How on\na secret visit one morning she broke the news to Grandmother,\npostponing vainly the Jaelian wrath to come; how later that wrath\nfell (\"Bold woman of Proverbs seven-twelve, who lieth in wait at\nevery corner,\" said Denouncer; \"I shall do more than _some_ as I\nknow, and go to 'Eaven a wedded wife,\" answered Denounced, brazen in\nvanishing-maidenhood)--while scorn and pity were showered upon the\nvictim; how Aunt Jael's ban went forth, and the banns despite it; how\nthey became man and wife; how she had her Triumph, and dragged him\nthrough the streets of Tawborough in an open carriage ... this and much\nmore I might portray.\n\nThe mild scandal in our Meeting was as nothing to the rage and horror\nin the Upper Room for Celibate Saints. At a solemn mass-meeting of\nthe survivors, nigh half a dozen strong, Doctor Obadiah Tizzard\ndecreed: that Glory Clinker, aider and abetter in evil, be then\nand thenceforward struck from the sacred roll and flung into outer\ndarkness; that against Salvation, n\u00e9e Clinker, sinner of sinners, be\npronounced the Major Excommunication.\n\nThe \"Upper's\" gain was our loss. Henceforward the Clinkers were always\nwith us. (Nobody favoured Salvation with her new surname.) But the\nchief loser by her change of state was, alas, poor Brother Brawn. The\nsisters let the High Street Mansion, the aforetime E.E.E., and moved,\ninseparably, into the White House. There, sandwiched between a gentle\n_d\u00e9traqu\u00e9e_ and a scolding shrew, our bleating leader found repentance,\nif no leisure more.\n\n\"I told 'ee so,\" said Aunt Jael. \"'E've done it now. There is _no_\nhope.\"\n\nThe husband certainly had none, though his spouse, dreamily quoting\nLuke-one-thirteen, declared that _she_ had, and the good sister-in-law\ner-er-er'd and plied her unsteady needle on swaddling-clothes, while\nmuttering always to herself \"John! Thou shalt call his name John!\" ...\n\n\nNeither school nor Lawn nor Clinkers, however, seemed anything but\nincidental to my life in the big house at Number Eight, always for me\nthe first of external things. Here too there were changes.\n\nMrs. Cheese had come back. Servant after servant had passed away\nlike that grass which in the morning groweth up and in the evening\nwithereth away. Stability reigned in the kitchen once more. Relations\nwith Aunt Jael partook of the nature of an armed truce. Both restrained\nthemselves, Mrs. Cheese because she wanted to stay, Aunt Jael because\nshe wanted her to; though the former was a bit too fond of making it\nclear that she had come back to us for my Grandmother's sake only, \"and\nnot to plaize zome others I cude mention.\" Despite her loyal affection\nfor my Grandmother, the real person for whose sake she had come back\nwas herself. At sixty she was too old to break with old habits, such as\nour kitchen and her routine therein, or with Aunt Jael, who was a habit\nalso, if a bad one.\n\nFrom this time Grandmother occupies a larger place in my memories than\nAunt Jael. Why, I am somewhat puzzled to say; for their life, and my\nlife with them, went on just as of old. Perhaps now that beatings\nbecame rarer, it was natural that she whose skill therein had been\nthe terror of my earlier childhood should loom less large. Perhaps\nit was that Aunt Jael, my bad angel, appeared tame in her badness by\nthe side of Uncle Simeon (but then should Grandmother, my good angel,\nhave become faint in my affections besides Robbie; whereas I liked her\nbetter and thought of her more). Perhaps it was that Grandmother's\ngentler qualities would naturally have made less impression on a little\nchild than Aunt Jael's harsh ones, or anybody's good qualities than\nanybody's bad ones. Further, I now saw more of Grandmother, as Aunt\nJael developed the habit of confining herself to her bedroom for days\nat a stretch, only emerging on to the landing to rain curses over the\nbanisters on Mrs. Cheese for a useless, shiftless idler, unfit to wait\non a suffering bedridden old martyr, or on Grandmother for a selfish,\nungrateful sister always absent from her elder's bed of pain; or\n(oftenest) on me.\n\nWith outdoor exercise and good food, which now for the first time I\nenjoyed together, I became healthier and I think happier. Though I\nstill lived for my daydreams, I had less time on my hands.\n\nWhat with dusting and bed-making and cooking, what with homework\nand meals and prayers and ceaseless reading of the Word in public\nand private, and Aunt Jael's and Grandmother's expositions, I\nfound my days too full to yield the time I needed for thinking and\ntalking to myself: for living. I got into the habit of stealing odd\nquarters-of-an-hour in the attic. Aunt Jael was on my scent in a\nmoment. How I loathed her when a luxurious heart-to-heart talk between\nMary and Myself was interrupted by her hoarse scolding voice.\n\n\"Child! Child! Now then. Down from the garret, now. No monkey tricks.\"\n\nPerhaps as an attraction to hold me downstairs, the portals of the\ndining-room bookcase were at last thrown open to me. The wealth therein\nwould have seemed meagre, perhaps, to worldlier spirits; to me, for\nwhom all books save One (and one other) had always been closed, it\nwas a gold mine. Of unequal yield. With some of the more desiccated\ndevotional works I saw at once that I could make no headway. Such\nwere Aunt Jael's beloved \"Thoughts on the Apocalypse\" and a row of\nfunereally-bound tomes devoted to the exposition of prophecy. Laid\nsideways on the bottom shelf was that musty fusty giant, our celebrated\ncopy of the \"Trowsers Bible.\" I liked Matthew Henry's great Commentary\nin three huge black volumes, with the dates at the top of every page,\nfrom which I learnt that this world was made in the year B.C. 4004 (six\nthousand years ago: a brief poor moment lost in the facing-both-ways\nEternity that haunted me), and that Christ was born four years Before\nChrist. Certain books demolishing the Darbyites or Close Brethren and\ntheir fellow-sinners at the other pole of Error pleased me by their\nhairsplitting arguments and vituperative abuse. Then there was \"Grace\nabounding to the Chief of Sinners\" by Master John Bunyan.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe record of this period of my life is perforce wearisome and\nundramatic. There are no events. More than ever my real life was\ninside me, was make-believe; that is, real. Change of residence was\nbut a change of stage. The same comedy-tragedy--ME--was for ever on\nthe boards. Not that the change of stage meant nothing. Houses, rooms,\nweathers, smells, all affected and were somehow a part of my thoughts.\nThe two towns, I knew, were intimately mixed up with my feelings about\nall that had happened to me in them. Torribridge was the more romantic:\nlittle white town made magical by the word-sorcery of Westward Ho!\nQuay that harboured brown-sailed ships from the Indies, memories of the\nRose of Torribridge and that salmon-coloured hostelry called by her\nname; then Number One, house of gold and murder and mystery. Tawborough\nwas more real. Graced by no Rose of Torridge, she held instead the rose\nof merchandise. The busy, countrified, unimaginably English character\nof her market and her streets seemed to make her more genuine, more\nactual--the right word eludes me--than Torribridge: Torribridge, that\neight months' rainbow-circled nightmare, mere invention of Mr. Kingsley\nand Robbie and Uncle Simeon. Act Three was back in the first setting\nagain; and here, in dining-room, in bed, in attic, the play went on.\nThe principal character was Mary Lee. The audience was Mary Lee. I was\nplayer, producer, public all in one.\n\n\"Mary,\" I would say, as soon as I was alone. \"Listen, I will tell you\nwhat I think.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mary; do!\"\n\nThis sense of two selves, one of whom could confide in the other,\nwas ever more vivid. Some one else inside me was pleased, surprised,\nangered, grieved; shared my sorrows and triumphs. Thus it was that\nin weeping for myself after some cruelty of Aunt Jael's or some more\nspiritual grief, I felt I was not selfish, because I was sharing\ntrouble with _some one else_, who lived in the same body. Such\nimpressions are at once too rudimentary and too subtle to be well\nconveyed in words.\n\nWhen I called out \"Mary,\" and \"_I_\" answered \"Yes\" the reality of\nquestion and answer between two different, though curiously intimate\npersons, was physical, overwhelming.\n\nSoon after my return to my Grandmother's this sense of dual personality\nbegan, in its most physical manifestations, to fade somewhat; in its\nmore spiritual quality, to grow more intense: the first when I began my\nDiary, the second at the miraculous moment of my Baptism.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX: DIARY\n\n\nThe notion came to me one warm autumn afternoon, as I was reading\n\"Grace Abounding.\"\n\nFrom the first page I struck up a living friendship with the Bedford\ntinker, though he had been in heaven for near two hundred years.\nI understood him as he talked aloud to himself and peered within\nto discover who and what was this John Bunyan inside him. I liked\ntoo--the more so as it was so new in print and from the mind of\nsome-one-else--the careful detail with which he told of his earthly\noutward life: his descent, his lowly parentage, his school, his early\ndays, though I could have wished for details of his Aunt Jaels and\nUncle Simeons. These did not lack when he talked of his \"inside\"\nlife, and told me (who knew) of his childhood's \"fearful dreams\" and\n\"dreadful visions\" and \"thoughts of the fearful Torments of Hell fire,\"\nbecause of which \"in the midst of my many Sports and Childish Vanities,\namidst my vain Companions, I was often much cast down and afflicted.\"\nWhy should not I tell a like story of my soul day by day, detail by\ndetail?\n\nThe notion rolled through me like a tide. I closed the book, sprang up,\nshut my eyes, and walked round and round the room in my excitement.\nToday, this moment, I would begin. Then as I turned my mind to\npractical details--the book I should write it in, the hiding-place\nfor the book--hesitations appeared. Wasn't it a bit funny? Did other\npeople do it? Why, yes: John Bunyan was \"other people\" right enough,\nand a good Christian too. And I remembered that I had heard somewhere\nbefore of a man who wrote down the story of his life. In a few seconds\nI placed my man. Poor old Robinson Crewjoe.\n\nI ran into the kitchen.\n\n\"Mrs. Cheese, you know Robinson Crewjoe you told me about, didn't you\nsay you could read about it all in a book he'd written himself?\"\n\n\"'E wrote it pon a bit buke 'e vound on the Wreck, so's 'e shidden\nvirget it, I reckon, or so's ither volk cude rade it arterwards--\"\n\n\"Yes, but _when_ did he write it?\"\n\n\"Ivry day, avore goin' to bed nights. Ivrythin' 'e'd been doin' that\nday. Leastways that's what my ol' Uncle Zam ollers did, who kep' a buke\nof the zame zort.\"\n\n\"What was it like? Please tell me about Uncle Sam's book.\"\n\n\"Wull, my Uncle Zam, over to Exmoor, was very aiddicayted he was, a\nturrable 'and vur raidin' and writin'. So long as 'twas a buke 'e'd\nlove'n and spell over'n vur hours and as 'appy as a king, as the zayin'\nis, but 'e liked best writin' down in this lil buke uv 'is own--a\n_dairy_ they caals un. Why fer I don't knaw, 'cause tizzen much to do\nwi' the milk, so far as I can see, and I ain't blind neither. Wull, in\nthis lil buke, and there was eight or nine uv them avore 'e died, 'e\nput down ivry blimmin' thing 'e did, 'tis true's I zit yer. Wull, when\nthe funeral was over and all the cryin', 'is widder--my ol' Aunty Sary\nthat was, bein' curyus like bein' a lil bit like you--thought she'd be\nfindin' zummat tasty in these ol' dairies, and tuke it into 'er 'ead\nto try to rade all the eight bukesful, or mebbe 'twas nine. But 'er\ncud'n 'ardly du it, not bein' aiddicayted like 'im, and when 'er vound\nit tuke 'er 'alf the day to spell over 'alf wan page, 'er got 'erself\ninto a turrable upset, an threw un all pon the vire, 'ollern' out 'Burn\nun all, burn un all, burn un all! Then 'er bangs out uv the rume. I\nwas up vrom me zeat avore you cude say Bo, and rescued the bettermos'\npart uv them avore they was burnt. Aw my dear days, I niver did rade\nzuch stuff. 'E'd put 'pon they bukes ivry drimpy lil thing e'd done and\nzeen and zed they vorty years: 'ow many calves the ol' cow 'ad 'ad, how\nmuch butter an' crame 'e zold to Markit, all mixed up wi' stuff about\nthe pixies 'e zaw, or _thort_ 'e zeed, top uv Exmoor o' nights; and a\nlot o' religyus writin,' for 'e was a gude Christyen for all 'is pixies\nand goblins, wi' plenty 'o sound stuff 'bout 'Eaven and 'Ell, and a\nmiddlin' gude dale about 'is sowl....\"\n\nThese were valuable hints. My resolve was confirmed. I would follow in\nthe footsteps of John Bunyan and Robinson Crewjoe and Uncle Zam.\n\nThat day, October the Twelfth 1860 (thirty-seven years ago come\nTuesday), in the unused half of an old blue-covered exercise book, I\nbegan. With what a sense of pride, of importance, of creativeness, of\nhigh adventure, I scrawled in great flourishing capitals my heading:\n\n\n    THE LIFE OF MARY LEE\n     Written By Herself.\n\n\nMy opening sentence was this: \"I was born at Tawborough on March the\nSecond, 1848.\" I have put it also on the first page of this present\nrecord, which from now, my thirteenth year onwards, is but a matured,\nshortened and bowdlerized version of the diary, eked out--more often\nfor atmosphere than detail--by memory. The keeping of the diary,\nhowever, weakened my memory; which, though of its old photographic\naccuracy in what it held, yet held far less. I did not need to\nremember things, I said to myself: I could always find them in the\nbook. Certainly for the first few years, I could have found there\neverything that was worth reading, as well as everything that wasn't;\nin later years, alas, I have succumbed to the fatal habit of compact\nlittle paragraphs epitomizing whole weeks, and even months, as fatal\nas the Sundries habit in a household account-book. Indeed, despite the\npathetic leniency we show towards the trivial when it is the trivial in\nour own life, I find the earlier pages of my diary tiresomely full; far\ntoo fond of \"What we had for dinner\" or \"Aunt Jael's scripture at this\nevening's worship.\"\n\nAs I told my diary everything, it began to take the place of my other\nself, and it is in this sense that I mean that the feeling of dual\npersonality was weakened. The self-to-self talks became fewer; the\nsense of a person telling and a person told was blurred. Unspoken notes\nin a grimy exercise book took their place; although at first, and\nalways in exciting passages, I would talk aloud, and take down, so to\nsay, from my own dictation.\n\nThis early diary is morbid, precocious, shrewd, petty, priggish,\nand comically, pitifully sincere. Religion looms large, with food\na bad second. This is natural enough. John Bunyan's whole aim was A\nBrief Revelation of the Exceeding Mercy of God in Christ to his poor\nServant, John Bunyan; Robinson Crewjoe was not the man to let slip\nany opportunity for a pious ejaculation, a moral reflection or a\ngodly aside; while Uncle Zam, according to his niece, took a middlin'\ngude deal of interest in his \"Sowl.\" These great exemplars helped to\nincrease what would have been in any case a heavy disproportion of holy\nmatter. This kind of thing is typical of the earlier years:--\n\n\n    FEB. 13. Woke still worried by the problems of Infinity in Time\n    and Space, tho' less despairing and appalled than the day before.\n    I pray, _pray_, PRAY; but all the time at the back of my soul,\n    the fear is still there:--Eternity faces me tho' I dare not face\n    Him, and _Where_ may my Eternity not be spent? Perhaps \"One Day at\n    a Time\" is the only way. A wet day. Read Exodus this afternoon.\n    Aunt Jael rough; so held forth to the Lawn children this evening.\n    They are _too_ appreciative; roar with laughter at everything I\n    say; it does me good, though this is set off by the harm done me\n    by encouragement in self-esteem. But no, no, no--I have a good and\n    great ideal for this Mary, that I must strive to fulfil; and petty\n    ministerings to her (my) vanity must be quashed and that right\n    sternly. Laurie Prideaux gave me some chocolate cream. He is an\n    obliging, kind, childlike, good, conceited boy. Polony for supper.\n\n    _Sunday._ Meeting. Bro. Quappleworthy on the Personal God. Saw Joe\n    Jones, I think in Bear Street: must be on holiday from Bristol.\n    Mrs. Cheese thought he was back. He did not see me; as he never\n    looked towards or acknowledged me, I assumed did not. To Lord's\n    Day School, two prayer-meetings, and Gospel-Service this evening.\n    _Very_ weary.\n\n\nLike Uncle Zam on Aunt Sary, I indulged in a good deal of\n\"plain-spaikin\" on Aunt Jael. The diary thus became invested with a\nhalo of danger. Suppose she found it in one of its many (and changing)\nhiding-places! She would beat me utterly, burn the diary, and mock\ncruelly at its contents. Yet it was from my Grandmother that I hid it\nwith my most ardent cunning. She would neither beat, nor burn, nor\nmock, but I knew she would condemn it as \"morbid\" (the word is a later\nacquisition), and search me with her kind common-sense eyes; and I\nshould be covered with shame. Not guilty shame, rather the shame a man\nfeels when his naked soul is shown to the world; the shame I always\nfelt when caught red-handed in one of my self-to-self declarations in\nthe attic. What if other eyes should read this for instance?\n\n\n    1860. Sept. 25. There are three months just to Christmas. _Then I\n    shall kiss Robbie._\n\n\nAll through my life these books of revelation have dogged me with the\ndaily fear that through them _I should be found out_; now that they\nhave served their purpose in helping me to compile this more permanent\nrecord, I have decided, like Aunt Sary, to \"burn un all.\" (Or nearly\ndecided; it is hard for a woman to destroy memorials of the past.)\n\nThe precautions I took, beyond subtle hiding, were: prayer, magic, and\nthe etching in red ink on each exercise-book-cover of this Device:--\n\n\n                  PRIVATE\n                   SHAME!\n    ON WHOEVER MAY THINK EVEN OF READING THIS\n                   BOOK.\n                   SHAME!\n\n\nWhether in the worst of us, e. g. Aunt Jael, curiosity is\nnot a stronger passion than fear, and whether therefore this\ncuriosity-tempting cover might not do more harm than good, was a\nproblem and a worry that continually assailed me.\n\nIn connection with the diary, I must speak of the Resolves or\nResolutions I began to make. These were a result, on one side of my\ngrowing sense of sin (egotism, ambition, triumph, revenge, hate,\ngreed, dirt, doubt), and on another side of an exactly opposite desire\nto realize my imagined ambitions by equipping myself to achieve them\n(wide knowledge, better health, nicer looks). They were written on\nhalf-sheets of note-paper, which I immediately put in an envelope. This\nwas sealed and hidden in between the pages of that day in the diary\non which the resolution was formed. The moment the least part of the\ncurrent resolve was broken--I knew it always by heart--I had to break\nopen the envelope and begin afresh. The old unkept resolve I placed in\nthe page of the day on which it was broken. Thus an enveloped, sealed,\nstill-in-action Resolve was kept with the day in which it was formed,\na discarded one on the day on which I fell. I usually began again on a\nday that would give me a clean start, such as the first of the month,\nor a magic date, or some special anniversary. Here is one that had a\npretty long run:--\n\n\n    March 9th, 1861.\n\n    _My Mother died thirteen years ago today_--Therefore from now\n    onwards I DO RESOLVE:--\n\n\n    I. EVERY DAY\n\n    To drink a glass of cold water before breakfast and }  To help\n    at night (better than senna)                        }  me be\n    To go for a walk                                    }  healthy\n\n    To brush my hair well                               }  To help\n    To clean my teeth hard                              }  me be\n                                                        }  pretty\n\n    To learn at least seven new verses of the Word by   }  To help\n    heart and revise seventeen old ones                 }  me be\n                                                        }  good\n\n                                                        }  To help\n    To tell the Lord everything in prayer               }  me be\n                                                        }  Him\n\n\n    II. NEVER\n\n    To steal oatmeal from the larder (as I did three times last week)\n\n    To think dirty things (as I did last Wednesday when I laughed when\n    Mrs. Cheese said Aunt Jael's drawers were like two red bladders).\n\n\n    III. ALWAYS\n\n    To eat slowly (37 bites to each mouthful)\n\n    To be like God would like.\n\n\n    RESOLVED, with Mother's help\n    Mary Lee.\n\n    20 minutes past 6.\n    March 9th, 1861.\n\n\nFor any one to whom this absurd document is absurd only, comment would\nbe but adding insult to injury. Here is another:--\n\n\n    _New Year's Day_, 1862.\n    (Beginning of a new year and third anniversary of my Flight\n    from Torribridge)\n\n    For this year I am going to make no special resolutions put out in\n    a list but at\n\n    EVERY\n\n    moment I shall ask myself this question:\n\n    WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME?\n\n    Then I shall never do wrong, and I shall be fitted and worthy for\n    His service.\n\n    So with His help I sign\n\n    Mary Lee.\n\n    Jan. 1st, 1862.\n    10.30 (a.m.)\n\n\nThis magnificent resolve seems not to have been specific enough, alas,\nfor my frail endeavours; under a date but six or seven weeks later I\nfind this:--\n\n\n    1862. THIS YEAR'S RESOLVE.\n    (New Version)\n\n    WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME?\n\n    _EVERY DAY_\n\n    (1) He would pray, _hiding nothing_.\n\n    (2) He would learn a new piece of the Word, and _more_ than Aunt\n    Jael made Him.\n\n    (3) He would be clean (ears, face, nails, teeth, hands, _heart_).\n\n    (4) He would go a nice long walk (instead of \"poking indoors\" as\n    _She_ calls it)\n\n    _AND HE WOULD NEVER_\n\n    (5) Have sinful thoughts like\n\n    Spite\n    Vengeance\n    Vileness\n    Pride\n\n    (6) Say sinful words, like\n\n    ----\n    ----\n\n    (7) Like sinful things, like\n\n    Praise\n    Riches\n    Eating\n    The Pleasure I have whenever the worst part of the \"For Ever\"\n      Fear is over\n    Flattery\n    Fame\n\n    (Signed) MARY.\n    Feb. 19th, 1862.\n\n\nIf this era of diaries and resolutions saw the two-persons idea for\na while less distinct, all the other mysteries of my earlier days\nremained. I still, for instance, put everything I did to the test of\nreason and instinct, obeying always the latter. I believed more than\never in my private magic and was persuaded that there were special\nacts, gestures and words which would enable me to perform miracles, if\nonly I could discover them. Dreaming away during Breaking of Bread at\nthe Room, I would be assailed by the desire to turn the wine in the two\nglass decanters into water; Lord's Day after Lord's Day I sought the\nmagic gesture in vain. I knew there was a word that, if cried aloud,\njust once, would enable me to soar upward to the sky and fly about\nangel-like among the stars. I never found it, though a hundred times it\nwas on the tip of my tongue, till I was half wild with hope. Another\nwell-cherished notion was this: that if my mother came to me again, and\nwe could achieve a complete embrace, she would be able to take me away\nwith her to heaven for a space, till a moment when she kissed me again,\nbefore the very face of God, and I would swiftly return to earth.\n\nThe only magic with which I actually succeeded, or believed I did\n(which is the same) was Numbers. 1, 10, 17, 437, 777 were magic: 7\nand 237 were big magic; 37 was arch-magic, the Holy Number. In every\nneed I called upon them. If Aunt Jael were flogging me, what I had to\ndo was to count a perfectly even 37, timing it to finish at the same\nmoment as her last stroke. I believed positively that it eased my hurt,\nand I believe so still, for my attention was concentrated not on Aunt\nJael's blows but on my magic: so far, if no farther, is faith-healing\na fact. Or I would jump out of bed in the morning, and begin to count,\nalways evenly. If when I finished dressing, I was at a magic number\n(the correct moment was when I shut the bedroom door behind me, though\nfor a second chance I allowed reaching the bottom stair) then the whole\nday would be lucky. Or out in the street, the amount of house frontage\nI could cover in thirty-seven strides I believed positively would be\nthe same as the frontage of the big house I should one day possess. So,\nlike the peasant in Count Tolstoi's tale, I strode mightily.\n\nA big house was one of my few material ambitions at this time, with\nmoney to spend on grand furniture for it (\"Riches,\" vide Resolution\nof 19|2|62). Even here my need was chiefly a spiritual one. I thought\nthat in a vast house, utterly alone, I should have a perfect place\nfor practising echoes, one of the means by which I hoped to solve the\nriddle of my existence. In the midst of a deathly silence I should\nstand in the great marble hall and shout.\n\n\"Mary Lee, what are you? What are you?\"\n\nA hundred echoes would swiftly call back through the silence, and I was\non the brink of understanding----\n\nA different method of solving the haunting riddle was to whisper my\nown name quite suddenly in a silent room, when alone with myself.\nSometimes the physical effect was so curious that I was certain of\nsuccess. Fervent praying to the point of ecstasy, more often to the\npoint of exhaustion, was another way. Sometimes I was able, it seemed,\nto disembody myself; my soul left my body (at which it could look\nback as though it belonged to some one else) and wandered nowhere,\neverywhere, becoming in some half-realized fashion a part of everything\nin space, and an inhabitant of all periods of time. I remembered, in\nthe fleeting fashion of dreams, things I had done before I was born,\nin some hitherto unremembered life. Then, again, things I had done\nstill earlier, in distant lives and far-away centuries; till, at last,\nI remembered myself for ever and for ever in the past, and my soul\nfled back into my body to hide from the new terror: Eternity behind as\nwell as before me, the unpitying everlastingness of the past as of the\nfuture.\n\nThe latter was still the unappeasable fear which hung like an evil\nmenace over every moment of my life. If I thought it out and lived\nthrough the mad blinding moment of terror as my brain battered itself\nagainst Infinity, I gained nothing; the terror flung me back. If I was\nwise, and refused to think of it, I knew myself for an ostrich with my\nhead in the sand. If I dared not face it, it was there beholding me\njust the same, unconquered, unconquerable.\n\nWas there no escape? The only notion I could conceive, and which I\ncherished with most desperate hope, was that Love, if ever it could\npossess my whole soul and being, would slay the King of Terrors once\nfor all. How could Love so come to me? Sometimes I thought it would\nbe God. I knew that my Grandmother had a joy, a serene and fearless\ndelight in the love of the Lord, which I did not share. I prayed\nfervently for this: that I might know the peace of God, which is\nperfect understanding; that I might possess this divine love, which\nI could see in her but did not feel in myself; that it might free\nme from the Fear which darkened my soul. And sometimes I thought it\nwould be Robbie. In his kind embrace, not in foolish echoes or magical\ntricks, might I find a perfect happiness which would transform and\ntransfigure me, till I could turn a laughing face upon the Terror. Then\nwould I long for Eternity; an Eternity of Love. And my body and soul\nwould fly back to Christmas Night. Ah tender arms around me, ah dear\nlittle boy beside me, ah tears, ah joy, ah Robbie!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI: I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN\n\n\n\"Do 'ee love the Lord?\" my Grandmother was for ever asking.\n\n\"Yes, Grandmother,\" I always replied.\n\nDown in my heart I knew it was not true. There was belief in me, and\nawe; but of that passion for God which I envied in her, no semblance.\nIf it were really love I felt for Him (I put it to myself) \"my heart\nwould warm within me whenever I think of Him, as it does when I think\nof Robbie: or of Mother.\" When I tried to conjure Him up, all I could\never see was a blurred bearded man on a high grey throne; and if I\npeered harder for face and features, a dark mist like a rain-cloud\nalways filled the space where they should be.\n\nI knew I could never love Any One Whose face I could never see.\n\n\"You do not love Him as you do Robbie,\" kept saying the accusing voice\nwithin. It is true, and the thought horrified me. Until I could feel\nthis greater love, I knew I had not \"got religion.\"\n\nFor all my godly upbringing, for all my pious ways, I was no more\nprivileged than ninety-nine of a hundred mere averagely religious\ngrown-ups. Like theirs, my religion was but an affair of education,\nhabit, intellect, morality. The Rapture was withheld. I had not got\nreligion.\n\nI knew my Bible as well as any child in England, and I loved it as\nwell. I believed in all the doctrines of the Saints, not vaguely\neither, like a normal unreflecting child: but had pondered on them, and\nwithin my capabilities thought them out and personally accepted them.\nNo atheist doubts oppressed me. The Tempter had not assailed me, as he\nhad assailed my friend John Bunyan, with \"Is Christianity no better\nthan other religions, just one religion among many?\" and other such\nwicked doubts. But I had not got religion.\n\nAnd fear beset me: fear of other people, of the Devil, of Eternity,\nand, now as I grew older, of myself. The glimpses I had of the evil\nnatures in me affrighted me. Sometimes in brooding over some wrong\ndone me, my imagination ran riot in fantastic excesses of cruelty and\nrevenge till I drew back appalled at the horrors of which, in thought\nat any rate, I was capable. I would brood over the unhappiness of my\nlife and the injustice meted out to me every day, till my soul was a\ndark seething mass of revengefulness and hate. Not till I found myself\nvisualizing the very act of murder did I draw back affrighted.\n\nWith the change in my nature that came as I grew into girlhood, a new\nseries of evil visions possessed me. I found myself picturing fleshly\nand disgraceful things, things I had never heard of nor known to be\npossible, thrown up from the wells of original sin within. Pleasurable\nsensations lured me on till I drew back appalled at the sickening\ndeeds that I, godly little Plymouth Sister, conceived myself as doing.\nOf course they were things I never _should_ really do--oh dear no!\nthat was foul, unimaginable!--but Conscience quoted Matthew five,\ntwenty-eight, and though I stuffed my fingers in my ears she kept\ndinning it. _You have committed it already in your heart._\n\nI had no sense of proportion, and believed myself a very monster of\nvileness: a vileness, I feared, which would cling and canker till it\ndeformed my soul and body and face; and I saw myself, a loathsome\nshape, living on for ever with increasing self-loathing through all\nthe pitiless eternal years. My blood froze with fear as my mind's eye\nstared fascinated at the shameful shape. I screamed as madmen scream.\n\nMadness I often feared. In my imaginings of Eternity, let me one day go\nbut a single step too far, let me suffer the awful ecstasy of fear to\nhold me but a second too long, and I knew my reason would be fled. So\nabout this time I added to my prayers: \"God, save me from going mad.\"\n\nBut fear, though never far away, and the sense of wickedness,\nthough always near the surface, were not masters of every moment.\nThe one thing that never left me was a feeling of unsatisfiedness,\nincompleteness. The world seemed an empty place, my soul an empty\nvessel. I had a melancholy sureness that something, the chief thing,\nthe secret of happiness, was lacking me. I believed that this secret\ncould only be discovered in the love of God: that there only could I\nfind, as my Grandmother had found, the peace and delight which pass all\nunderstanding. That alone was religion, and I had it not.\n\n\"Do 'ee love the Lord?\" my Grandmother was for ever asking.\n\nTo possess the love of God became the aim of all my prayers and hopes.\nIt alone could save me from my evil self, quell my bad desires, dispel\nmy fears, and fill the aching void. How could I possess it? The\nconviction seized me one day, how or why I do not know, that I should\nobtain it in the moment at which I was baptized; not before, and in no\nother way. Once the idea had come, it would not leave me; to hasten on\nmy public immersion became the chief endeavour of my life.\n\nGrandmother was nothing loth, for it was her own dearest wish. My age,\nshe said, might be raised in objection: I was not yet thirteen. Had I\nsurely faith?--I gave her passionate proofs--then God's requirements\nwere fulfilled. She spoke to Aunt Jael, and both of them to Pentecost\nDodderidge, who agreed ardently.\n\nThe Brethren do not of course practise infant baptism. However,\nchildren of about my age could be, and very occasionally were,\nbaptized, provided they gave surpassing proofs of holiness. Faith, not\nage, as the Bible shows, is the only test of fitness. But certain of\nthe Saints in our Meeting, influenced whether by \"common-sense,\" or by\nthe rankling notion that none of their children ever had been or ever\nwould be admitted to baptism at such a tender age, began to murmur, and\nspoke privily to Pentecost against the project. Brother Browning took\nthe bolder course of taking my Grandmother herself to task. Dark doubts\nbeset him, he declared, scriptural doubts; though his real motive was\njealousy for Marcus.\n\n\"Unscriptural?\" said my Grandmother in amaze. \"Have you read your acts\nof the Apostles, Brother Browning? Faith, not years or rank or race is\nwhat the Scripture requires. Think of Crispus, Cornelius, the jailor of\nPhilippi, Lydia seller of purple! Turn to your eighth chapter: Philip\nand the Ethiopian eunuch: 'See, here is water, what doth hinder us to\nbe baptized?' Does Philip answer 'But tell me first your age?' No, he\nanswers: 'If thou believest with all thine heart, thou mayest.'\"\n\nShe turned to me. \"Child, do you believe with all your heart?\"\n\n\"Yes, Grandmother.\"\n\nTurning in triumph to Brother Browning: \"The Scripture is satisfied.\nAnd,\" she added, \"Mr. Pentecost approves.\"\n\nBrother Browning was confounded. Nevertheless, but for the affection in\nwhich Grandmother was held, and Aunt Jael's prestige, both backed by\nthe insurmountable authority of Pentecost, I am pretty sure that some\nof the Saints would have resisted further. In face of that Trinity,\nthey were dumb.\n\nSo it was settled, and I began a term of \"preparation.\" Grandmother\nenjoined that I turn my mind wholly on heavenly things. She held\ndevotions with me at all hours, praying sometimes far into the night.\nPentecost himself came in to pray with me, while those who had raised\nobjections were invited specially to test my faith. Brother Browning\ncame,--like the Queen of Sheba, to prove me with hard questions. Like\nSolomon, I emerged triumphant.\n\nAs the time drew near, sometimes my excitement could hardly contain\nitself. My visions of the Moment became more detailed, more delirious,\nmore intense. At the very moment of immersion the old Wicked Me would\ninstantly die and a New Self come into being: in a second, Eve would\nbe driven out and Christ implanted for ever in my soul. At one magical\nstroke I should possess happiness and be freed from all fear and\nwickedness and emptiness of heart. The love of God would not enter me\nslowly, gradually; but would storm me like a victorious army, swallow\nme like the sea.\n\nAs part of my preparation, I was taken by Grandmother to one or two\nbaptisms. Ceremonies were held from time to time, according as there\nwere sufficient candidates. Our Meeting baptized not only for ourselves\nbut also for the Branch Meeting and all the villages around. The\nnumber of persons immersed ranged from two or three to a dozen. The\nceremony took place in the Taw, following Scripture example; at a spot\njust beyond the quay and the ships, a few yards from where the Town\nrailway-station for Ilfracombe now stands. Here the river was shallow;\nyou could wade nearly into mid-stream. Robing and re-robing took place\nat White House, Brother Brawn's tumble-down residence near by. Now that\nPentecost was too old, Brother Brawn was our Baptist. The usual time\nwas Lord's Day morning; very early, to avoid a jeering crowd.\n\nAt the second of these ceremonies that I was taken to see, a strange\nincident occurred. Despite the day and hour, we were never quite\nwithout a few scoffers, who would stand on the shore a little way away\nfrom our company, and shout and mock at the proceedings in the water.\nOn this particular occasion two men who looked like labourers appeared,\nnot on shore, but in a small boat in mid-stream; where they remained\ncat-calling and jeering while we held our preliminary service on the\nriver bank. Brother Brawn waded out with the convert--a fair-haired\nyoung man whose name I do not remember--till the water was about up\nto their middles. The two men in the boat rowed nearer till they were\nwithin a few yards only; but farther out, and therefore in a deeper\nplace. The river was at high tide.\n\n\"Look 'ee at the dippers, the sheep dippers!\" they cried; then to\nBrother Brawn, \"'Tis too early yet for the dippin', master, 'tis a'most\nwinter still.\" They used foul words and sneered blasphemously, taking\nGod's name in vain.\n\nWe on the shore had noticed a dog with them in the boat, a little\nterrier, shaggy and brown. When Brother Brawn began the actual act of\nimmersion and dipped the fair-haired young Brother's head under water,\none of the men in the boat began a blasphemous imitation. He took the\ndog by the scruff of the neck, held it over the edge of the boat, and\nkept dipping its head under the water. After each word of Brother\nBrawn's he cried out: \"I baptize thee, O Brother Dog, i' the name o'\nthe Vather, o' the Zun--\"\n\nWe were too horrified to speak or move. I know my face was scarlet with\nshame; and I prayed within: \"O God, stop him, strike him low. Stop his\nmouth. Punish him now.\" I saw Grandmother was saying a like prayer.\n\nGod replied before our eyes. The mocking man, in a misjudged movement,\nbent over too far with the dog. In a second the boat was overturned,\nand men and dog were in the water together, struggling and splashing.\n(Brother Brawn's back was turned; I do not think he knew what was\nhappening.)\n\nWhere the boat had overturned it was clearly much deeper, as neither\nof the men could stand. One managed to swim in safety to the opposite\nbank. The other, the chief mocker, struggled, rose, disappeared, rose\nagain, and finally disappeared, gurgling and gesticulating horribly.\n\nThose of us on shore were purged with awe and terror. \"God is not\nmocked!\" cried Pentecost.\n\nAfter the service, the dead body was washed ashore; I gazed in dumb\nhorror (thinking too of God's power) at the staring wide-open eyes, the\nblue face contorted with fear, the soft white foam issuing from the\nmouth.\n\nThe dog was saved. Brother Brawn took it away with him and had it\npoisoned.\n\nThis incident served to tinge with apprehension the hopes with which\nI looked forward to my own immersion, now very near. Suppose I were\ndrowned: in my own way I was wicked as the labourer, with better\nchances and less excuse. God could drown me if He wished. The mere\nphysical horror of cold water was another fleck. Nor was Mrs. Cheese\nbehindhand with tales that troubled. She recalled the young woman\nin a rapid decline who had been baptized one winter morning in the\nExe, had been dragged out unconscious, and had died within the hour.\nShe knew of Sisters who had fainted through nervousness or collapsed\nwith the cold. Then there was the Christian wife who was stripped\nnaked and horsewhipped by her infidel husband, a country squire over\nChittlehampton way, because she had received public baptism. He flogged\nher till she was a mass of blood and wounds, till she fell to the\nground as one dead; then dragged her up again and dashed her head\nagainst a stone wall. She died from ill-usage, a true \"gauspel martyr.\"\n\nMy day was fixed: our next baptism, a Sunday in April, a few weeks\nafter my thirteenth birthday.\n\nClothes were a problem. Female candidates usually donned for the\noccasion an old cast-off skirt which they could afford to let the water\nruin. Pieces of lead were sewn at intervals to the inside of the bottom\nof the skirt, so that when in the water the air would not get into and\nblow it upwards.\n\nAccording to Aunt Jael, the pieces of lead should weigh about four\nounces each: just sufficient to keep the skirt pendant and modest. All\nvery well, said my Grandmother, but what good were weights--four ounces\nor forty ounces--when the skirt, like the child's, reached down to the\nknees only? There was only one way out of the difficulty: \"The child\nmust wear a long skirt for the occasion.\" A faded black serge of my\nGrandmother's was unearthed. It fitted me--more or less--though a good\ncouple of inches higher in front than behind; and, helped out by an old\nblack blouse and cape, produced the most grotesque and unlovely Mary\nthe mirror had ever shewn me.\n\n\"Changing\" was at Brother Brawn's, the White House, near the quay. On\nthe Saturday night preceding the event Grandmother took me down there\nwith my ordinary Lord's Day clothes wrapped up in a paper parcel and\nlaid them out in the back kitchen (the immemorial after-the-event\nrobing room) ready for the morrow. Mistress Brawn, n\u00e9e Clinker,\nreceived us with an infantile affectation of patronage: as though we\ndidn't know that Brother Brawn's had been the garmenting-house for\nforty years and more.\n\nThe morrow dawned fine and cold. With Grandmother on my left hand\nand Aunt Jael on my right, I sallied forth down Bear Street, in full\nbaptismal kit of faded black. What the few early risers we met on our\nway thought of me I do not know. Nor, I expect, did they.\n\nThough he had relinquished the office of Baptist for several years,\nPentecost Dodderidge decided to resume it for this one occasion.\nIt was a supreme honour for me, a high compliment to Aunt Jael and\nGrandmother, and a real risk and sacrifice on his part: for he was in\nfrail health, and nearing his eighty-fourth year. At the riverside we\nfound him waiting, clad in the black surplice he had always used, his\nwhite beard flowing free. Around him the Saints stood clustered; every\nman and woman in the Meeting must have been there.\n\nAll there, whispered the Devil, to see _you_. You the child-Saint,\nyou the youthful trophy of God's grace. There were other candidates,\nI knew, mere everyday grown-ups; but I was the \"star turn,\" and I\nfirst should enter the water. The moment was very near: \"Be ready,\"\nwhispered Grandmother. My heart beat wildly. The air was sharp and a\ncold breeze was stirring. How much colder would the water not be! Cold\ndark water, suppose it should engulph me for ever? How blue the mocking\nlabourer had been. But God would not treat me so: my heart was aching\nto receive Him. He would come to me, not cast my body to death. How\nall the Saints were staring. Vanity swelled again. I was the youngest\nwho had ever been baptized in Taw (I heard it whispered near me), the\nyoungest ever privileged to break bread! Were not all the people gazing\non me, admiring my piety, specialness, distinction? Ah, publicity,\nglory! I would walk into the water in the view of all the multitude,\nlike an empress on her way. \"Crush that vile vanity!\" the Better Me\ncried savagely: \"Chase forth that paltry pride. Only to a clean and\nhumble heart can the Lord of Heaven come. Quick, away with it!\" Ere the\nvoice had done speaking, all the pride had fled away. My heart stood\nempty, sure of its emptiness, hungering for the Holy Spirit, waiting\nwith intense expectation and a hope almost too hard to bear.\n\n\"Come, Lord Jesus,\" I whispered.\n\nMeanwhile around me they had sung a hymn and prayed a prayer; I hardly\nknew it. Pentecost took my hand. The moment was here: should I die\nof hope?--my heart was beating so. We waded out together in the cold\nstream. I must have been looking eastwards for I remember the bright\nmorning sun was in my eyes. I can see again the green fields opposite.\nI remember too how frail and tiny I felt as Mr. Pentecost's hand held\nmine, and as he towered above me in the water.\n\nA long way out we halted: I was up to my shoulder nearly, he to his\nmiddle. He grasped me, placing his right hand under my left armpit,\nand the palm of his left hand flat in the middle of my back. He looked\nto heaven, holding me still upright, and called in a loud voice: \"I do\nbaptize thee, my sister, in the name of the Father and of the Son and\nthe Holy Ghost.\" On the last word he flung me backwards until for a\nmoment I was wholly under the water.\n\nNow the miracle took place. As I came up again the water streaming from\nmy face was no longer cold, but warm and luminous; not water at all,\nbut light itself. Light suffused me, covered me, poured into me, filled\nme; a blinding, lilting joy and brightness throbbed and shone through\nall my body and soul. I shut my eyes in sheer rapture; my ordinary\nsenses faded away; sight and hearing were of another world from this\nbeatific Presence. It seemed as though another person, luminous and\ndivine, had entered into my body. It was God. I knew everything; and\neverything was well. I remembered all I had ever done, and far away\nthings I had done in distant centuries in other lives I had not known\nuntil now. I seemed to remember the future too; for in that moment\nTime had no meaning; that moment was all Eternity. I understood, with\na perfectness of comprehension beside which all my life before seemed\ndarkness that there was no beginning and no end, no time and no space,\nnothing but God Who transcended them all, and who now possessed me\nutterly. I thought my heart would burst. The holy exaltation was too\nhard and beautiful to bear. All round and in me was light and love: the\nsun and God and I, all the same soul and body, all merged together, all\nwithin each other, all One. For that one glorious moment I _was_ God.\n\nA transcendent experience transcends all verbal description: even\nnow I cannot think of it: only feel it, _live_ it again. Nor can\nexplanation impart its quality to others. It is my soul's own mystery,\nindescribable, incommunicable, in the most literal sense ineffable. I\nrail at words that they can do so little, then at my own folly that I\nshould seek to describe in finite language the Infinite Mystery of God.\n\nThe ecstasy lasted perhaps, in the world's time, a minute: though, in\nreality, for ever. Then I remember, as I woke to finite experience,\na gradual ebbing sensation as the Holy Spirit departed from me. The\nwarmth and radiance faded; the streaming fluid of light was dripping\nwater only. I was conscious of Pentecost again, clasping my hand and\nleading me ashore. I heard the voices of the Saints raised aloft in a\nsong of triumphal thanks. Then--Grandmother's welcoming arms, benignant\nSaints, the White House, garment-changing, loud Salvation, dear warm\nbreakfast; all part of a waking dream.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe results of Jordan morning were chiefly four.\n\nFirst, I was left with a certainty of belief in God, a sense of\nauthority in my knowledge of Him, and an ever-present memory of His\nnearness and reality, that faith without experience could never have\nfurnished. I apprehended once and for all the folly and futility of\nall intellectual reasoning about God, all attempts to bolster Him up by\nargument; to prove Him. Vain beatings about the bush! You do not beat\nabout the Burning Bush: you enter within, and there is God.\n\nSecond, from that day onwards I could never again be sure that life\nwas real. After the blinding reality of my moment with God, all things\naround me seemed faded and unsubstantial; they were the shadows of\na dream, of the dream that I was, alive. After a while, as my soul\ntravelled back to the habits of normal experience, the notion haunted\nme less; but it has never completely left me.\n\nThird, having received the knowledge of God, I knew that it was the one\nthing worth living for. I knew I must show myself worthy of possessing\nHim, and fit to receive Him again. The sense of perfect holiness I had\nexperienced filled me with a yearning for goodness and purity that\nwas almost morbidly intense. I tried every moment of the day to make\nmyself more like the Holy Spirit, more capable of feeling within me the\nholiness I had for one moment felt. Conscience was ever at hand: for a\nlong space I obeyed her every bidding. The fact that I was happier put\nspite and revenge and morbid broodings under better control. Heredity\nand habit, the taint within and the harsh surroundings without, kept me\ndismal-Jenny enough: but from the day of my baptism my bouts of misery\nwere less frequent, less prolonged, and less cruel. I had always the\nmemory of that tender triumphant ineffable moment with God.\n\nFourth, and most curious, I found myself farther away from my\nGrandmother. We had the same religion, yet different religions; knew\nthe One God, yet different Gods. Or rather the difference was not in\nHim, but in our two selves, in the two temperaments with which we\nexperienced Him. All my life I had envied my Grandmother's joy and\nserenity in the Lord; I had obtained a joy as perfect, yet I knew\nthat it was another joy; not greater nor less, but different. Her\nchief delight was in contemplating the salvation of all souls achieved\nthrough the sacrifice on Calvary; mine was the Spirit of God filling\nand irradiating the heart. Not that I ever doubted that it was through\nand because of the Cross that the knowledge of the Lord had been\nvouchsafed me so miraculously; but the emotional result interested\nme, not the theological cause. In all my earnest strivings to be good\nit was never the sacrifice of Jesus that spurred me on; but always the\nmemory of the Holy Spirit. I must be clean and good and holy like Him,\nand worthy to welcome Him again. I have put the distinction between\nAunt Jael and Grandmother as this: Aunt Jael was an Old Testament\nwoman, Grandmother a New Testament one. But the real distinction\nbetween the three of us was this. God is Triune and One: Aunt Jael\nrevered the First Person, Grandmother loved the Second, and I adored\nthe Third.\n\nTrouble began in this way. Unlike Grandmother, now that I had got\nreligion I took a strong dislike to talking of it. To her \"Do 'ee\nlove the Lord?\" I could only reply with passionate truth, \"Yes,\nGrandmother\"; but I found that (where before my baptism it was the\nsense of insincerity in my reply that had troubled me) now it was a\ncertain indelicacy in the question itself that offended. \"If in my\nheart\"--this is approximately what I felt--\"I have the mystery of the\nlove of the Lord, that is a private and sacred bond between Him and\nme. Whose business is it else? What right have they to pry?\" I felt a\ncurious shame, resembling the shame of nakedness, but more intense and\nspiritual; as the soul is more sensitive than the body.\n\n\"Do you contemplate _hourly_ the Cross of Christ?\" \"Is the Means of\nSalvation your _only_ joy?\" \"Do you think _always_ of the blessed\nGospel plan?\" \"Is the Atonement _everything_ to 'ee, my dear?\" No\nworldlyhead, no scoffer could have hated these searching questions\nas did I. My Grandmother perceived the distaste, and was profoundly\npuzzled and pained. Her own answer to these questions would have been\n\"Yes,\" in the weeks after her baptism (she must have said to herself),\na fervent triumphant Yes.\n\nOne day an incident showed how wide the spiritual breach was becoming,\nand widened it still further. It was a Saturday morning: I was sitting\non the bottom stair of the staircase, pulling on my boots to go for a\nwalk. My Grandmother, coming from the little pantry at the head of the\ncellar steps, stooped down as she passed, and asked in a loud whisper\nof intense earnestness: \"The Cross, my dear: is it giving you joy\n_now_?\" She bent and peered, poking her face right into mine. It was\nso sudden, the irritation and distaste so powerful, that I drew back\nsharply with a quick gesture of annoyance. There had been no time for\ndissimulation, and the look on my face was unmistakable. So was the\nlook on hers--pain, and a rare and terrible thing, anger.\n\n\"You _dare_ draw back like that? What is it? _Du my breath smell bad?_\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe real crisis, I saw, was yet to come. Now that I had got religion\n(in my fashion, in God's fashion, for me) I knew that I was never\ndestined to fulfil my Grandmother's purpose: to devote my life to\npreaching the Gospel in heathen lands. The first moment I thought of\nthis after my baptism I realized with a shivering aversion how much\nmore distasteful my long-decided future was than it had ever appeared\nbefore; I realized too in the old authentic way, that it was not God's\nwill or purpose for me; and but for this, I was far too honest, in my\nnew frame of mind, to have let my own distaste count for anything.\nI reflected how odd it was that through the great central act of my\ndedication, I had become unable to fulfil its ultimate purpose. But so\nit was. The same answer came to all my prayers, unspoken and afoot, or\ncried out on bended knees: His purpose for me was no missionary one,\nbut my best endeavours in an ordinary life in the everyday workaday\nworld. The conflict to come was not with Him, but with Grandmother.\n\nWhat would she say when the day of decision came, and plans and\ndetails of my apostolic career could no longer be evaded or postponed?\nWhat would she say? How would she feel? And I, how should I face her\nscornful accusing eyes? The more I pictured the inevitable instant, the\nmore I feared it.\n\nAnd the everyday workaday life, where and what would it be? I had still\nthe vaguest ideas on such matters, though I knew I should have to earn\nmoney and provide myself with bread: I, the mere dependent, the Charity\nChild as Aunt Jael so often described me. The question turned itself\nover and over in my brain. It was from an unexpected quarter that the\nanswer came.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII: THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER\n\n\nI used to visit my mother's grave. Any one not knowing my Grandmother\nmight have thought she would be glad. But no--\"Don't 'ee do it, my\ndear. Once in a way 'tis right enough may be. But don't 'ee be getting\ntoo fond of graveyards.\"\n\nSo I would gather flowers and put them on my mother's grave without\nsaying a word to any one.\n\nOne Saturday morning in April, about a year after my baptism, I had\npicked primroses in the lanes, two great bunches, and was on my way\nback to the cemetery, which lay in Bear Road on the outskirts of the\ntown, not very far above the Lawn. I was absorbed in my thoughts,\ntalking away as usual to myself. But when I saw a horse coming up the\nroad towards me I stepped aside almost into the ditch that ran along\nunder the hedgerow, and stared as one does at whatever inspires fear.\nHorses came in my mind only second to cows as objects of prowling\nterror. As the horse came nearer I looked up at its rider.\n\nMy heart beat violently. I inordinately wanted him to recognize me.\nHe glanced at me as he approached as any horseman might at a strange\nchild on the roadside; there was no recognition in the deep-set eyes.\nHe was sharper featured and less handsome than in my memory; but the\nfriendliness and aristocratic distinction of the face were as I had\nretained them. Set on his horse, he looked something far above the\nworld I knew. Recognize me he must; I would make him.\n\n\"Sir! Sir!\" I cried eagerly, shrilly, feebly, with an awkward appealing\ngesture.\n\nHe put his hand in his pocket and threw me a shilling. So he thought\nI was a beggar girl. I was filled with a burning shame of my lowly\nappearance and shabby clothes, though truth to tell they were hardly as\nbad as I thought them. I let the coin roll into the gutter. Now he was\npassing me. My determination to make him know me became desperate: the\njoy of being recognized must be mine. My heart was throbbing as I came\nout into the middle of the road. I looked at him appealingly and cried\nout:\n\n\"Westward Ho! Westward Ho!\"\n\nHe stared.\n\n\"I'm not a beggar; I'm the little girl you gave the book to in\nTorribridge. Don't you remember?\"\n\nHe jumped from his horse.\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? Are you really sure?\"\n\n\"Really! How is Aunt Jael?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, you do, you do!\"\n\n\"And is it still so very silly to say that a certain little white town\nlooks glorious from the hills--?\"\n\n\"Oh yes--\"\n\n\"And did Uncle Simon--\"\n\n\"Simeon,\" I corrected.\n\n\"--Let you read the book after all? Now do you believe I remember,\nlittle Miss Doubting Thomas?\"\n\nI was radiant in the light of the kind quizzical smile.\n\n\"Of course I do. He burned it in the fire and said it was a wicked\nswearing book just when I was at the best point where they attack the\nGold Train. That was when he began to treat me crueller, till at last I\nran away and came back to Grandmother and Aunt Jael.\"\n\n\"They live here--in Tawborough?\"\n\n\"In Bear Lawn, do you know it? Number Eight.\"\n\n\"May I be inquisitive? What is your name, little girl?\"\n\n\"Mary Lee. May I be inquisitive, please? What is _your_ name?\"\n\n\"Ah, I don't think it would interest you if you heard it.\"\n\n\"That's not fair. Names are very important, they help you to know\nwhat people are like. I'm Mary, you can see that to look at me, I\nsee that myself when I look in the glass. Any one like Aunt Jael\ncould only be called Aunt Jael, it belongs to her just as much as\nher stick. I like names, especially fine names of people and places:\nlike Ur of the Chaldees. Say it over slowly, in a grand way like\nthis--Urr--of--the--Chal--dees! Penzance is another nice one, and\nMarazion: I like all places with a 'z' in them, a 'z' looks so rare\nand special. People's names are better still. The man we beat in\nthe Armada--do you remember it was you who told me about the Armada\nfirst, and I thought it was an animal, but I know all about it now--the\nSpanish commander was called the Duke of Medina Sidonia. Roll it over\non your tongue. If there is a Duke of Medina Sidonia alive now, I\nshould like to marry him. Fancy being called the Duchess of Medina\nSidonia!\"\n\nI half closed my eyes in rapture.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said twitching just a little at the corners of his mouth,\n\"you're the same little girl.\"\n\nI liked this observation, as I was intended to. I could see he was\nlaughing at me, but liked me. I forgave the first for the second.\n\n\"You have not told me your name yet. I think it must be a good one.\"\n\n\"If it is _very_ good will you do the same for me as for the Duke of\nMedina Sidonia?\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Oh\"--colouring--\"I will see. Tell me your name\nfirst.\"\n\n\"No, you must promise first.\"\n\n\"Very well then, if you won't! I can't promise to marry you. I shall\nnever marry at all.\" There was a quick vision of Robbie. \"At least I\ndon't think so, and anyway it would be some one else. Good-bye, sir,\nnow.\" We were at the cemetery gates: \"Unless you would wait? These\nprimroses are for my mother. I come here to put them on her grave.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't like me to come?\"\n\n\"Yes, you may. I want you to.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I like you. That's a proper reason; and _she_ wouldn't mind.\"\n\n\"Who? Your Grandmother you mean, or your aunt?\"\n\n\"No, my mother. So come, will you please? What will you do with your\nhorse?\"\n\nThe horse was not to be a stumbling block. \"Here, hi!\" he called to a\nfarmer's lad who was passing. \"Hold the mare for a few minutes.\"\n\nI led the way through the gate and across the familiar daisied turf. We\nstopped at a simple grave, kerbless, grass-grown and unpretending. On\na plain upright slab of stone was inscribed\n\n\n                   RACHEL TRAIES\n    _These are they which came out of great tribulation._\n\n\n\"Here we are.\"\n\n\"Which one?\"\n\n\"This.\" I pointed.\n\n\"But, but--Traies? You told me your name was Lee.\"\n\n\"Yes, they call me Lee because my mother was called that before she was\nmarried, and it's my Grandmother's name. Traies is my father's; people\ndon't use their father's name unless they live with him.\"\n\n\"I suppose not.\"\n\n\"What--why do you speak like that? You know him! You know my father!\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You've heard of him I can see.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps.\"\n\n\"How? When? What does he do? Where is he?\" I waved the primroses.\n\n\"I don't know any of the things you ask me, and I don't know him.\nHonour bright. But I think I've heard of him, though of course the Mr.\nTraies I've heard of is quite likely a different person altogether, for\nthe name is not so rare in Devonshire.\"\n\n\"Is the one you've heard of a wicked man?\"\n\n\"Not a very good man, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's the same! Say wicked, it's what you mean. A vile wicked man.\nHe cruelly treated my mother and put her in this grave. There, I was\nforgetting her. Mother dear, here are the primroses.\"\n\nI knelt down and said a prayer, half aloud, more to my mother than\nto her Maker and mine. Only for a moment, and then very slightly,\nwas I shy of the Stranger. Nor was there anything self-conscious\nand melodramatic in me, no enjoyment in performing a striking and\nsentimental act in front of another person, such as would have been\nexperienced by most people, and by myself too a few years later. (I had\nless sense of pose and acting when some one else was watching me than\nif alone, for I myself was the only person I performed in front of. On\nthe day when I hurled \"Brawling woman in a wide house\" at Aunt Jael,\nit was somebody else inside me looking on and listening who exulted in\nMary's wit. Not for some years yet did I begin in the more usual manner\nto make life a performance before other people.) I was silent for\nperhaps three minutes. As I rose I wiped my eyes. So I think did the\nStranger.\n\nHe said: \"Would you mind if I put some flowers there too--wipe your\nknees, the grass is damp--Would you mind?\"\n\n\"Why? No, it would be very kind. But you haven't got any.\"\n\n\"Some other time I shall bring them, when next I'm passing through\nTawborough.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I like you. That's a proper reason; and--maybe--_she_ wouldn't\nmind.\"\n\n\"Well, you may. We must go, it is dinner-time.\"\n\nWe reached the gate and he took his horse. Both of us knew we did not\naccept this meeting as final, each of us was waiting for the other to\nspeak. I knew I could outwait him.\n\n\"Little girl, we shall see each other again? May I write and ask your\nGrandmother or Aunt to let you come and see me?\"\n\n\"Grandmother, not Aunt Jael. They might be angry though. What are\nyou--a Saint?\"\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\"A Saint.\"\n\n\"No, a sinner. At least I think so. Not that I know quite what you\nmean. Still I shall risk it.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"One day. Don't worry; not far ahead. Now good-bye.\" His foot was in\nthe stirrup.\n\n\"Good-bye.\"\n\nHe was soon away up the hill. I stared him out of sight. He turned\nround once.\n\nI turned home, pleased and excited at the new life given to an old\nplayer in the drama of Me. He was a kind and interesting looking\nhuman-being, with this rare and all-important merit that he liked me. I\nfelt this keenly every time he looked at me. I turned over in my mind\nwhether I should tell Grandmother and decided not to. After all the\nStranger had said he would write to her: was it not better that she\nshould learn of it from him? For this letter I waited.\n\n\nAnother letter received by my Grandmother soon put all thought of the\nStranger at the back of my head.\n\nOne day at breakfast she read us a letter from no less a person than\nthe sixth Lord Tawborough, lord of Woolthy Hall. The writer stated that\nhis love for his old governess, reinforced by the wishes of his late\nrevered father, induced him (now that he had come back to Devonshire\nto live) to hope to make the acquaintance of her mother; the more\nespecially as she had been wronged by one connected by kinship with the\nfamily and whom she had first met in his father's house--his house.\nWould Mrs. Lee be courteous enough to name a day on which it would be\nconvenient for him to call?\n\nI was all attention. Now I should meet a person who had played a part\nin my mother's life, the little boy who had been kind to her. There was\na debt to be paid here, as much as to any one who had been kind to my\nown self. How I should pay back I could not yet decide. A lord! Mary\nrecompense a lord!\n\nAs I thus reflected Aunt Jael was weighing up whether she would accord\npermission to His Lordship to enter _her_ house.\n\n\"Wull, let him come. Maybe he thinks he's honouring us. Let him know\na day on which he may call? The Lord's Day! He can come to Meeting\nand learn that there's a bit of difference between his high position\nbefore men and his wretched position before his Maker. Let him come. I\napprove.\"\n\nSo did my Grandmother, whom natural instinct, religion, and the\nsobering experience of seventy years' sisterhood had combined to teach\nthat it was not worth while pointing out that it was to her that\nLord Tawborough had written, or that the house too was equally hers,\ninasmuch as one seventeen-pounds-ten-shillings is quite as good as\nanother.\n\n\"Very well, Lord's Day after next. I will ask him to come about ten\no'clock. If he wants to, he will make the time suit.\"\n\nHe made it suit, arriving at a bare four minutes past the hour on the\nLord's Day after next.\n\nIt was a big day to look forward to: except perhaps for my Grandmother,\nwith her curious indifference to persons and events worldly. Aunt\nJael pretended a scornful superiority which deceived nobody. That a\nlord, and Lord Tawborough, one of the great ones of the earth (and\nthe county) was paying a visit to Miss Vickary--for so of course the\nvisit was announced--was soon all round the Meeting. On the Tuesday\npreceding, the Misses Clinker discussed it all the afternoon.\n\n\"I don't 'old wi' these lords,\" said Miss Salvation, \"the Lord God\nA'mighty is good enough for me. They 'ave pride in their sinful 'earts,\nand they imparts pride to them as receives 'em.\"\n\n\"_You_ jealous, ha, ha! Don't you know your place?\" The old stick\nthumped.\n\n\"I du; and well enough not to go inviting under my 'umble roof folks of\nanother station in life.\"\n\n\"In this life,\" corrected Glory.\n\nSalvation agreed. \"If you was to give 'im a plain talk about 'is sowl,\nmaybe the Lord would forgive the sinful pride in yer 'eart and render\nthe visit fruitful and a blessing to 'ee both. But you won't dare.\nYou'll remember 'e's a lord, and fearing to offend 'im ye'll offend\nyer 'eavenly Lord instead--\" She was ruder than she usually dared,\nfortified by the knowledge that what she said was getting home.\n\n\"Silence, woman!\" shouted Aunt Jael. \"Every one of your foolish words\nis false. The young man won't leave my house till he has confessed his\nsin and been shown the plan of escape. I've asked 'im on a Lord's Day\nso that he goes to Meeting with us, and hears the gospel. I've no doubt\nfor the first time in his life. He'll be there at 'Breaking of Bread.'\"\n\n\"Aw, will 'ee?\" Salvation reviewed rapidly what chance she would have\non that occasion of attracting his lordship's special notice.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Sister Jael, I'm sure I do. Sorry I spoke in 'aste;\nI was forgetting to jidge not so I be not jidged. Maybe you're asking a\nfew old friends up to meet him?\"\n\n\"Maybe fiddlesticks.\"\n\nMiss Salvation groaned aloud with envy and disappointment. If one\nconsiders the disproportionate pleasure an invitation would have\ngiven, Aunt Jael may be judged mean in her refusal. On the other hand,\npoor Lord Tawborough!\n\nMy interest in the visitor was greater than Aunt Jael's, less snobbish\nand more dramatic. He would be the first of my father's relatives I\nhad ever met: he figured in the sacred story of my mother. I pictured\na hundred times what he would be like; young, grand and impressive. He\nwould wear a coronet and carry a golden pole with ribbons floating from\nthe top.\n\nAt the last moment my chief attention shifted from the visitor to\nmyself: from considering what he would look like to what I should\nlook like to him. He was to arrive by carriage, he said. Aunt Jael\nwas to bow him into the famous front-room, swept and garnished for\nthe occasion, offer him a chair, a glass of sherry and a biscuit, and\nhustle him off to Meeting. This was Aunt Jael's program. Mine was quite\nas carefully worked out. I decided to stay upstairs in my bedroom\ntill he came, watching his arrival from my window, retiring so that\nhe could not catch a glimpse of me, and not descending till Aunt Jael\nbegan to shout for me. Then I would go downstairs, ready dressed for\nMeeting. The advantages were: first I looked best with my bonnet on,\nas it concealed my scraggy and unalluring hair; second, I should have\nseen him before he saw me, always a strategic advantage; third, he\nwould see me last, after he had had time to absorb the lesser charms of\nGrandmother and Aunt Jael--even so does the leading lady fail to appear\ntill you have made the acquaintance of the lesser stars.\n\nI made one eleventh-hour alteration. As I heard carriage-wheels coming\nup the Lawn path, I decided, with impulsive generosity, not to peep\nat him. It would be taking an unfair advantage: I would let him burst\non me at the same moment as I on him. To avoid temptation I ran away\nfrom the window. I was specially excited. Now for some of Aunt Jael's\nsnobbery. A lord!\n\nGrandmother was calling me, \"Child, child!\"\n\nBegloved, bonnetted, Bibled, I went downstairs. As I approached the\nhalf-open parlour door, I heard Aunt Jael expounding my \"usual\"\nunpunctuality (a lie). My heart beat fast. I went in to greet our\nvisitor.\n\nIt was the stranger.\n\n\"Good morning, little girl. So you got home all right that day.\" He\nrose, smiling. The advantage was his with a vengeance: poor reward for\nmy self-sacrifice in allowing him a simultaneous first-sight, when I\nmight have peeped from my window, discovered who he was and got through\nmy first excitement alone.\n\n\"You!\" I gasped, \"you're Lord Tawborough?\" My amazement was shot\nthrough with enjoyment of Aunt Jael's.\n\n\"Yes, that's the grand name I told you of. I'm not a duke, you see,\nonly a humble lord. I'm so sorry; Tawborough hasn't got quite the swing\nof Medin-a Sidon-ia, I must admit. I'm sorry, Your Grace.\"\n\n\"You,\" I echoed, doubting if all this were not a dream. I clutched for\na moment to see if I could feel the side of my bed.\n\n\"Come now, child, explanations are due. What's this mean? There's been\nconcealment here.\"\n\n\"'Tis time to be off, Jael,\" whispered Grandmother, \"twenty past.\"\n\n\"You must explain on the way; your lordship is ready too?\" The first\nsentence was spoken with usual harshness slightly modified for the\nhearing of visitors, the second with an interesting mixture of\ndeference and command.\n\nWe sallied forth. Lord Tawborough on the outside, then Aunt Jael,\nthen Grandmother, then myself. On the way, he related briefly his\nencounters with me, omitting with admirable reticence his purchase of\nWestward Ho! and our visit to my mother's grave. Our entry into the\nRoom was stately, triumphant and restrained. In the Book of Judgment\nthere is a big black mark against Aunt Jael in that she did forget\nshe was entering the Lord's house, in her majestic obsession that she\nwas entering it with a lord. A biggish black mark against my name\ntoo. Grandmother alone of the four of us has a clean white space.\nFor the Stranger too was proud--proud that he was not too proud to\nmind entering a Brethren meeting-house with humble folk, the pride\nof having no pride, the last pride of all--a huge mark his, black as\nnight. Marks against all the Saints' names too, even in that gathering\nof devout souls I could see that there were none, excepting always my\nGrandmother, who did not turn from holy thought for an odd moment now\nand then to note their noble visitor: to feel a worldly interest in his\npresence. More appropriately I could see them observing with regret\nthat he did not Break Bread (though of course he could not--it would\nhave been wicked if he had) and with pleasure that he was not allowed\nto give to the box. Despite the glint of a gold guinea, Brother Brawn\nsnatched our four-mouthed monster proudly away from his outstretched\nhand; we would not take gold from a sinner, albeit a peer.\n\nIn almost all the prayers that morning sorrowful reference was made to\nhis lordship: it was hoped that in His own good time the Lord might\nturn him to Himself. After every such reference came \"Ay-men! Ay-men!\",\nSalvation bellowing loudest.\n\nI was too preoccupied pondering on the extraordinary fact that the\nStranger, my mother's little friend, and the sixth Lord Tawborough,\nwere one and the same person, to pay much heed to the service. One\nfeature, however, stands in my memory: an eloquent utterance by Brother\nBriggs, who on this occasion outshone himself: shining face (remember\nhe was an oilman) and shining words alike. His voice roared through the\nRoom.\n\n\"There's zummat we've 'eard a powerful lot about jis' lately: Princes.\nPrinces dyin' an' marryin' and givin' in marridge.[3] Princes this an'\nPrinces that.\" (He took a deep breath, threw back his head, puffed out\nhis chest, slapped it heartily again and again, beamed supernally, and\nshouted like a multitude.) \"I'm a prince! You stares, brethrin, you\nstares in wonderment, an' I repeats it to 'ee all; I'm a royull prince.\nWhy vor? Reflect a minute. What _is_ a prince?--Why, 'tis a King's son,\n_an' I'm the son uv a King, I'm the son uv a King, I'm the son uv a\nKing_!\" (He slapped his breast resoundingly three times.) \"Ay, an' a\nson uv the King of Kings; so I'm a Prince uv Princes! Turn wi' me to\nthe twenty-second chapter of the Gauspel accordin' to St. Luke, and\nthe twenty-ninth verse: 'I appoint unto you a kingdom.' _You_: that's\nyou and me, brethrin, that's our title and patent, or whatever 'tis\nthey caals un, to be princes royal uv the kingdom uv 'Eaven. Not as we\noughtn't ter respect the princes uv this earth: I knaws ma betters,\nan' I ain't got no pashence wi' they as don't. 'Owsomever, they are\nbut mighty for 'a little space,' while us shan't never be anythin' but\nlords an' princes, all thru the rollin' glorious years uv Eternity: vur\niver, an iver, an iver!\n\n\"An' _Who_ did it all? _'E_ did, _'E_, the same Chris' Jesus. 'E as\nbrought me up out uv a norribull pit, out uv the _moiry_ clay an' set\nmy feet upon a rock: the rock uv salvation. An' 'ere I am, a glorious\ntriumph an' trophy of 'eavenly Grace. An' so are all uv 'ee: triumphs\nand trophies of Grace! It du my ol' eyesight good to look around this\nblissid rume. My pore 'eart is nigh to bustin' this very minnit as I\nspeaks, wi' 'Is amazin' love fullin' ivry pore an' makin' me shout vur\njoy. Praise ye the Lawr! Praise the Lawr, O My sowl! Praise 'Im in the\n'eavens; praise 'Im in the 'eights! Praise 'Im on earth till us all\npraises 'Im together in the sky! Bewtivul. Bewtivul. Bewtivul.\"\n\nHe clumped to his seat: a common dirty little man, faint with shouting\nand radiant with God.\n\nThe moment the last prayer was over, Aunt Jael rose and stumped swiftly\nfor the door, our procession following: the Stranger, Grandmother,\nMary. This hint that she intended to escape without introducing \"my\nlate niece's kinsman\" to all and sundry was understood by sundry and by\nall save one. Miss Salvation Clinker flew to the door and essayed to\nbar our exit with ingratiating smile.\n\n\"Good mornin', good mornin' to 'ee, Sister Jael.\" Looked longingly\nbeyond to the Stranger.\n\nAunt Jael lifted her stick with threatening gesture, did not return the\ngreeting and gave no sign of recognition, thrusting past her through\nthe door.\n\nMiss Salvation stifled a murderous and most unsaintly look, twisted her\nenormous mouth into what she conceived to be a winsome smile--lips wide\napart, tiger-teeth gleaming--pulled out her black serge skirt with both\nhands in the approved fashion of a courtesy, and ducked. The Stranger\nslightly bowed--triumph after all!--and we escaped.\n\nFor dinner there was roast beef and sprouts followed by rhubarb pie.\nAunt Jael, republicanly, had decreed that there should be nothing\nbetter than usual for dinner because a lord was coming. Nor, as far as\nactual food went, was there. But there was a very special show of best\ndamask and our modest best silver, for no other reason (that I could\nsee) than that a lord was coming. Worse than this: Aunt Jael instructed\nMrs. Cheese to wait at table, as they do in grand houses. Instead of\nmy Great-Aunt just passing the plates along, Mrs. Cheese bore them,\nladen with meat only, to our respective places, plumped them in front\nof us, and then stood beside us in turn with the sprouts and potatoes.\nSimilarly for the pudding-course, with the cream and the sugar.\nUnfortunately, when Mrs. Cheese waited at Lord Tawborough's side with\nthese, he was deep in converse and did not observe her. Mrs. Cheese\ngave his lordship a hearty nudge. He flushed, and as flimsy covering\nfor his fault (in not observing her) said \"No,\" to the sugar and cream,\nthereby depriving himself, for the rhubarb was sour; and annoying Aunt\nJael, whose temper was sourer.\n\nAs soon as we were all served, Aunt Jael set upon our visitor. Her\nfists tightened round her knife and fork, her brows were in battle trim.\n\n\"Wull, how did you like the service?\" Staccato: opening shot.\n\nHe scented battle; realized that he was to be landed in a\nheart-to-heart talk on the plain issues of religion: a thing he feared,\ndisliked and shirked. (He was a member of the Church of England.)\n\n\"Oh, very much, very much, thank you.\" A trifle evasively.\n\n\"Wull, what particular testimony helped you most? Whose utterance did\nyou find of most value?\"\n\n\"Oh--er--they were all very sincere.\"\n\n\"But you found no special message? For instance, Brother Briggs?\"\n\n\"Brother Briggs? Let me see, which was he?\"\n\n\"The one over to the right who spoke last.\"\n\n\"Oh, that odd little man in the corner! His accent was a little\ndifficult in places: I've been away from Devonshire so long that I'm\nafraid here and there I didn't quite follow what he said.\"\n\nThere was no intention of sarcasm; he realized the dangers too well.\nBut a certain \"superiority\" of manner--half-amused, half-irritated, and\naltogether natural--enraged her.\n\nThere was a moment's dead silence. The storm broke tempestuously. She\nwas at the head of the table; the Stranger was sitting on her right.\nShe leaned across the intervening corner, banged the table with her\nknife-encircling right fist, and howled into his face, with a withering\ncontempt it is impossible to convey, this one phrase: \"_'E's got what\nyou ain't got!_\"\n\nHe dropped his knife with a clatter on his plate in sheer fright,\nstarting back as far as he could as she leered into his face. It was\na moment before he could recover sufficiently to reply in a rather\nquavery un-lord-like way, \"Oh, er, what is it then?\"\n\nThunderously: \"_Eturrnal Life._\"\n\nThe Stranger kept his temper, an irritating thing to do.\n\n\"How do you _know_, Miss Vickary, that I have no chance of eternal\nlife?\"\n\nOn such mild opposition anger feeds. She raised her voice to a kind of\nbass shriek, dropping her aitches generously.\n\n\"_'Ow_ do I know young man, 'ow do I know? If you 'ad eternal life,\nif you _'ad_ accepted the Lord, you'd talk about 'Is grace and\ngoodness a little more bravely, and not look like a silly sheep when\n'eavenly things are spoken of. Ugh, I know you shame-faced professin'\nChristians, who blush when you 'ear the word Jesus, and never dare\nto roll the 'oly word on your tongue, I know 'ee! _'Ow_ do I know?--\nIf you _'ad_ eternal life you'd not be mocking at a poor lowly\nBrother who 'as a 'undredfold better chances of it than you, with\nyer 'oh-er-ah-excellent little fellow in the corner with a difficult\naccent doncherknow.' _Ow_ do I know? If you 'ad the Lord you'd be\na bit readier to talk about Him and testify to 'Is grace. Don't\ntell me!\"--she poked her head into his face for a final thunderous\nshout,--\"_By their fruits ye shall know them!_\"\n\nGrandmother looked troubled, seeking a chance to intervene. The\nStranger set his face like flint and determined to keep his temper,\nthough she should scalp him with the knife she was brandishing in his\nface. He spoke very quietly.\n\n\"Miss Vickary, one moment please, what do _you_ know of my fruits?\nAfter all we have met for the first time today.\"\n\nHis calm, his common-sense, were fuel to the fire. She thumped the\ntable with the butt end of her knife till it shook.\n\n\"Silence, youth, silence! Am I not seventy-two years of age, and ye but\ntwenty-one? In my young days youth respected age, rank or no rank. I\ntell 'ee plainly: you're a miserable sinner. Learn to mind your manners\nwith those who're older than yourself; learn not to mock at them of\nhumbler station--\"\n\n\"Miss Vickary, I--\" he protested.\n\n\"Jael,\" pleaded my Grandmother.\n\n\"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Lee. I don't mind, I don't really.\"\n\nHe looked across the table in a bee-line at my Grandmother, as though\nAunt Jael did not exist: the proper punishment for people who lose\ntheir temper, the most pleasant revenge for those who keep theirs.\n\"No, no, don't worry; of course I don't mind. To be sure, I didn't\ncome here to discuss my own life in the next world but your little\ngranddaughter's in this. I can never forget her mother's kindness to\nme, I want you to let me do something for her.\"\n\nAunt Jael recommenced eating, tired with shouting, beaten after all.\n\nHe had so swiftly but irrevocably changed the subject that she could\nnot easily go back to Brother Briggs and Eternal Life. My opinion of\nthe Stranger rose every moment. As a loyal Saint I had not liked his\nslight note of superiority when he spoke of Brother Briggs, but the\nmoment Aunt Jael attacked him I was of course of his party through\nthick and thin. And I realized the every-day worldly point of view just\nenough to see that a peer of England is not accustomed to being railed\nand shouted at by an old woman he hardly knows, least of all when he\nis paying a courtesy visit to her in her own house, and decided that\nthe way he kept his temper was wonderful, as well as the shrewdest for\ngetting equal with Aunt Jael. With every reply, modelled on my own\nmethod, my opinion of the Stranger rose. And now that he spoke with\nreverence of my mother and of \"doing things\" for me my admiration knew\nno bounds. He was perfect.\n\nGrandmother was replying to him. \"Thank you kindly; we need no help.\nThe child needs nothing but the love and mercy of the Lord.\"\n\n\"Quite so, but worldly advantages--\"\n\n\"I need no worldly advantages for her, they could do nothing for her if\nshe had them. She is dedicated to the Lord's service in foreign parts,\nand her whole life will be spent among the heathen.\"\n\nNow or never I must strike for freedom.\n\n\"Oh, no, no, _NO_,\" I burst out.\n\nThere was an amazed silence. I was amazed myself. The words came from\nmy heart before I knew what I was saying.\n\nMy Grandmother's voice quavered; there was a bitter disappointment in\nher face I had never seen there before. \"Are you ill, child, are you?--\"\n\n\"No, Grandmother, no, I will always love and serve the Lord. But not as\na missionary among the heathen, I cannot, I cannot, I have never dared\ntell you about it before, but I will now. I often prayed about it, for\nI wanted to please you and please Him, and months ago now soon after\nmy baptism He answered No. He told me He needed me in other ways, to\ngo about in England like an ordinary person and testify to Him there.\nGrandmother dear, don't be sorrowful; 'tis true, it isn't because I\nwant to get out of going to the heathen, 'tis because I know the Lord\ndoesn't mean me to. Oh, if you knew how certain I was--\"\n\nShe had no answer to this supreme plea. \"Very well, my dear. If my\ndream and your mother's is not to be fulfilled, if your dedication is\nnot to lead you to the fields of sacrifice I have prayed for, you can\nstill remain lowly and far above worldly graces and achievements. Thank\nyou, your lordship. Mary needs nothing.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Lee, I beg you. All I want to do is whatever a little money or\ninfluence can, to give your grand-daughter certain advantages it might\nnot be easy for you--forgive me--to afford. I hardly know that I intend\nanything special. The child is musical, I believe. Some good music\nlessons, perhaps, with a first class master? Some tuition in French\nor Italian, so that she might travel or take perhaps a really good\ngoverness-post? I'm sure you will forgive me for thinking that her\nmother would have wished it. It is in her name that I plead.\"\n\n\"And in the name of common-sense.\" To get a bit of her own back on\nmy Grandmother (for not having been rude to the Stranger) Aunt Jael\nentered the new battle on my side. \"If Lord Tawborough is good enough\nto offer the child advantages we can't afford, we'd be fools not to\ntake them, and as for the child being a missionary, look at her! I\ndon't hold much with the governess idea, but she has to earn her living\nsomehow, and may as well take advantage of anything she can. Yes, Lord\nTawborough, _I_ accept.\"\n\nMy Grandmother offered some further resistance, but at last it was\ndecided that I was to have lessons in riding, music and French, each\nwith the best instructors in the town.\n\nRiding! Music! French! Vistas spread before me. Imperial futures.\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" I said rather primly, though I would have clasped his\nhand if I had dared.\n\nWhen we had finished dinner Aunt Jael settled down as usual for her\ndoze and Grandmother went upstairs to her bedroom to study the Word. At\nour visitor's request I was excused Lord's Day's school and permitted\nto go for a walk with him.\n\nWe went out of the town along by the river to the woods. I was\ntongue-tied, waiting for him to speak. I was proud a little, confused a\nlittle, shy a little, yet down in my heart quite at ease. Above every\nother sentiment I was happy. Partly because of the new prospects he had\nopened for me, partly because of the extraordinary coincidence by which\nthe Stranger and my mother's little boy were one and the same person,\nchiefly because I liked him, and he liked me.\n\nAfter a while he began to talk, and so did I. I was too na\u00efvely\negotistical to see it then, but he made me talk, led me on all\nunconscious to most garrulous self-expression. I grievously broke my\nancient rule of listening to other people, of absorbing things rather\nthan imparting them. I told him all about our life at Bear Lawn, about\nAunt Jael and Grandmother, about Uncle Simeon also and Torribridge,\nwith discreet omissions as to Christmas and New Year's Nights. Nor did\nI tell him, for I could have told no one, a word about my own inner\nlife; it was too sacred, too ridiculous.\n\nWhat was his inner life? I fell to wondering.\n\n\nIn my bedroom, on the evening of this wonderful Lord's Day a long and\ntearful vigil. I had just got into my nightgown, when my Grandmother\ncame in. She closed the door more quietly, yet more decisively, than\nusual. I knew what was going to happen. She came to me, took my arm,\nand looked straight into my eyes.\n\n\"Child,\" she said, \"you've taken away the brightest hope of my old age.\nThe light is gone out of my life.\"\n\nWith any one else there would have been a catch in the voice. In that\nmoment I understood and admired and pitied her more than in all the\nyears before. I felt the poignancy of her sorrow, and the measure of my\nown shallowness and shame. I was her child, more than her child, her\ndaughter's gift to be given to the service of God; my dedication to\nHis Service was her supreme offering to Him Whom she loved with a love\nbeyond my understanding.\n\nWe knelt down together for the longest prayer that I remember.... Now\nthat I had forsworn my holy dedication and chosen the worldly path,\nGod grant that I might still walk as in His sight. I had confessed\nin baptism that I had been raised with the Lord Jesus, and now I had\npreferred a worldly future to the unsearchable riches of Christ. Might\nthe Lord in His mercy vouchsafe that my salvation might still be\nsecured and that she, the old pilgrim, whose call was very near--and\nI, whose call might be nearer than I thought (ye know not the day\nnor the hour)--and one other, called already, whom both of us loved\nthe best--might all three be united in tender love and everlasting\nsisterhood around the throne of God....\n\nI was sobbing.\n\nShe broke short, I remember, without finishing the prayer. \"Forgive me,\nmy dear, 'tis I who am wrong. I admonish the Lord in vain. What He has\nwilled He has willed. 'Tis a great sorrow. _His will be done._\"\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[3] Albert, Prince Consort, died December 14th, 1861: Albert Edward,\nPrince of Wales, married March 10th, 1863. The allusion must have been\nto these events.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII: WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD THE HEART OF WOMAN\n\n\nThe Stranger's return was a landmark.\n\nFirst of all there was a vivid addition to my stock of rehearsable\nmemories. Second, there was the interest of my new accomplishments.\n\nI went for my music lessons to one Monsieur Petrowski, a Polish\nrefugee, who had just fled from his native land and was settling down\nin Tawborough. I made great progress with my music, and if he gave me\na goodly share of scales and studies beyond the needs of discipline\nhe had for plea the direct instruction of Aunt Jael. Now that her\ntime-honoured boast \"I pay for the child's music\" was crumbling about\nher ears she solaced herself by instructing Monsieur Petrowski very\nplainly.\n\n\"Now not too much fine showy music.\"\n\n\"Very well, Mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"No infidel trash.\"\n\n\"?\" A slight bow, vaguely affirmative.\n\n\"Always plenty of what she doesn't like\": Aunt Jael's ideal of\neducation. \"Make it a task, sir, make it a task. Plenty of scales,\nchromatics, or whatever 'tis.\"\n\n\"Very well, Mademoiselle.\"\n\nMonsieur Petrowski obeyed reasonably well, but he forgot to break my\nwill, and I suspect much of the music I learned of open infidelity.\nMy talent and taste developed, and by eighteen years of age I played\nthe piano better than (say) ninety-five embryo governesses out of a\nhundred. I loved Chopin best.\n\nWith French I made equal progress. Here again Aunt Jael appointed\nherself the intermediary of the Stranger's bounty. She selected to\ninstruct me Miss le Mesurier. This lady was half French by parentage,\nhad lived abroad the best part of her life, and had now come back to\nspend her declining old-maidhood in her native town, and keep house for\nher bachelor brother Doctor le Mesurier,--the same who had attended\nmy mother when I was born. She became a regular member of our Meeting.\nAunt Jael's instructions were explicit. \"Make the work a task, a trial,\na tribulation. Pander not to her pleasure loving tastes. No romances\nfor her study, no trash, no infidel works.\" These restrictions, gladly\nacquiesced in by my teacher (who about this time followed my example\nand took up her Cross in public) cut out all fiction, plays and poetry;\nleaving us with the devotional writings of French Protestants, and\nhistory; the former of an epic dullness, the latter an imperishable\nfountain of excitement and romance. We read a Monsieur Michelet's\nHistory of the Revolution. My appetite for history grew as it was fed.\n\nFor my third accomplishment, my instructor was neither Pole nor French,\nbut red-faced broad-breeched Mr. Samuel Prickett of Prickett's \"Mews\"\n(sic). In this quarter even Aunt Jael jibbed at bestowing admonitions,\nnor were they needed. It was a trial and tribulation for me after her\nheart. No sooner did I approach the fragrant riding-school and behold\nthe feats I should have to emulate than I found myself in a shocking\ncondition of fear, while for the first few minutes in the saddle I was\nverily purged with terror--in the good (and accurate) old Bible sense\nof the word. I would hunch my back, my limbs would grow rigid with\nfunk, and when Mr. Samuel Prickett for the first time tickled Rose\nQueen into the gentlest of trots I clung with frenzy to the scanty\nmane of that poor mare. The first time she galloped I screamed aloud,\nrolled incontinently out of the saddle, and clung for dear life to her\nneck. Every Tuesday and Friday I approached the mews with set teeth and\ninward prayer for courage, with a supreme \"Help me O God!\" as I put my\nfoot into the stirrup; after a year or two of prayer and perseverance I\nwas a fair if never a fearless horsewoman. (Even at the beginning there\nwas this set-off to fear: pride.) I knew that my riding-habit became\nme; if a few of the bolder spirits on the Lawn mocked and jeered, I\ninwardly mocked and jeered back because I knew that really they were\nimpressed: their sneers were but a natural tribute to their jealousy\nof me and respect for themselves. More than the costume, the fact of\nriding gave me a delicious sense of importance. It may be argued that\nthe connection between horsemanship and aristocracy is merely the\nresult of distant historical origins, far-away reflection of a world\nwhere the knight alone went horseback and the common man trudged humbly\nthrough the centuries. All I am sure of is this: that in the country\nlanes I felt myself a very fine young lady, i. e. at such moments as I\ndid not feel a shocking coward. In the middle of pleasant reviews as to\nthe lordliness of riding a horse, I would be seized with a pained and\nconcentrated interest in my reins, a perspiring anxiety not to lose the\nstirrups, a most unaristocratic readiness to snatch the mane. (Pride\nqualified by fear: man's natural state.)\n\nThe aim of all these proceedings was to obtain, by the Stranger's help,\na governess' post in a good family. Meagre and melancholy ambition this\nwould seem to worldly spirits nowadays. To me the prospect was fame,\nfreedom, adventure, _la Vie_!\n\nLord Tawborough I rarely saw. Grandmother stood out against Aunt Jael\nin refusing to let me stay at Woolthy Hall. I wrote him a report of\nprogress every three months, a soulless jellyfish document, heavily\ncensored by both Grandmother and Great-Aunt. The former always said\nI was not grateful enough, the latter that I was not humble enough.\nThe final product was an unpleasing mixture of grovelling gratitude,\nhateful humility, and perfect grammar. My Grandmother persisted in her\nold plan of keeping me meek and lowly by never speaking well of me to\nmy face, nor allowing any word of praise to escape her lips, yet I\nknow she was proud of such progress as I made alike in these special\npursuits and at the Misses Primps'. I read often in her eyes how deeply\nshe felt it that I had not chosen the Better Way, and I realized how\nunselfish was her interest in my progress.\n\nI began to appreciate my Grandmother's unselfishness at its true worth.\nIn it lay all her charm, her goodness, her difference from other\npeople. It was through her that I first came to see that unselfishness\nis the one virtue, as it was Aunt Jael who helped to teach me that\nselfishness is the one vice. I would think out every evil act I could\nimagine and find that at bottom it was Self. I would think out every\ngood deed and discover that its essence was always unselfishness. In\none of those flashes in which I saw and felt things I had before only\nvaguely believed, I grasped the meaning of the Cross. I saw suddenly\nhow utterly selfish I was myself, full of hopes for myself, weaving\nfutures for myself; always self, self, self; and a voice inside me\nasked: \"Now what hopes has Grandmother for _herself_?\" and though I\nwas alone I coloured at the sudden discovery of self-accused shame.\n\"She has nothing; the one great hope left to her was you, and you have\ndisappointed her.\" I began to understand the sorrow and loneliness of\nan old woman's lot, the vacancy, the lack of hope and lookings-forward.\nNo doubt when Grandmother had been a little girl she too had said to\nherself: \"Wait, Hannah, wait till you're grown up; then things will\nbe happier. Wait for love, marriage; then you will be happy.\" Married\nlove faded, husband died. \"There are your children.\" But the children\nwent away; Christian into a consumptive's grave, Martha unhappily wed,\nRachel slowly tortured to death. Hope still ahead: \"You will find\ncomfort in your children's children.\" What comfort did they hold for\nher: Albert!--and Mary who had betrayed the last great hope. What had\nmy Grandmother to live for? The daily round of Aunt Jael's nagging: old\nage with sorrow behind and only Heaven ahead.\n\nAunt Jael, I reflected, had been denied even the pleasures of sorrow,\nthe regret for good things gone away; neither love, nor husband, nor\nchildren. Should I have been better in her case? Perhaps there were\nexcuses for Aunt Jael.\n\nI had to say this to myself very hard and very often in these days. As\nmy Great-Aunt grew older she grew noisier, more evil-tempered, more\nshrewish; her evil and domineering nature was having a final bout\nbefore the ebb tide of a maudlin dotage. As I remember her during my\nsixteenth and seventeenth years she well nigh baffles description. A\nhooked-nose wicked old witch, scolding, snarling, imprecating, hurling\ntexts and threats about her. She would sit back in her old armchair\nand nag and shout from morn till eve, cursing my Grandmother for an\nidle selfish ingrate if not always at her beck and call to button\nor unbutton her boots, to dress or undress her, to help her up- or\ndownstairs. \"Why shouldn't she do a bit for me, that's what I want\nto know? Hannah is younger, Hannah is sprightlier, not an old woman\nlike me!\": you would have thought the eighteen months were eighteen\ncenturies. Mrs. Cheese stood up to the old bully, and giving what she\ngot, got rather less. I came in for the most consistent cursing, and\nthe worst outbreaks. She would stand up with eyes blazing and howl\nat me at the top of her voice (that bass shout impossible to convey\nin print which I called her \"yell-growl\"): \"Ugh, yer father's child,\nevery inch of 'ee; you feature him and yer character's as evil. Vicious\nlittle slut, pert wench, vile little sinner, adulterer's daughter,\nspawn of Beelzebub!\" She would lash out as of old with her stick; more\nthan once after I had passed sixteen she flogged me till I was black\nwith bruises.\n\nBy training and by character--and following my Grandmother's example\nand for her sake--I could take it all with apparent meekness. But some\noutlet for the Beast in me was provided by her increasing deafness.\nGiven Grandmother's absence from the room and a suitable modulation\nof mouth and voice, I could give her all that she gave in the way of\nabuse. As she sat back exhausted, with her eyes half closed in some\npassing lull, I would look up from my sewing, and with lips barely\nmoving give her my views. \"Oh, you wicked old woman; you cruel selfish\nbeastly hag; you shrew; you enemy of all righteousness! How I loathe\nyou, hate you, spit at you!\"\n\nOften Conscience smote me. \"Where is your 'do unto others'?\" So I\nwould make allowances; she had been lonely, always unloved. She was\nold, unhappy. I could not help feeling that these were not excuses so\nmuch as explanations: she was just what an old maid who had domineered\nand been deferred to all her life would naturally be. She was herself\ncarried to her logical conclusion.\n\nHer habits changed. She only went to the morning Meeting, and that not\nalways. On weekdays she got up late.\n\nOur mornings would have appeared to outsiders a roaring and improbable\nfarce.\n\nAt eight o'clock Grandmother and I would sit down to the breakfast\ntable. No Aunt Jael.\n\n\"Is Miss Vickary coming down this morning, do you know, Mrs. Cheese?\"\n\nThe latter grunted.\n\n\"Please go and see, will you, so that we can have her breakfast right\nfor her.\"\n\nMrs. Cheese went upstairs, leaving the dining-room door open behind\nher. Just before we heard her knocking at Aunt Jael's door, we heard\na more sinister noise in the bedroom above, a spring and a thud: Aunt\nJael bounding out of bed to lock the door against her, usually managing\nto turn the key in the lock just as Mrs. Cheese began knocking.\n\n\"Lem'me in! Zich games wi' an ole body.\" She knocked and thumped.\n\nNo success. The silence of death.\n\n\"Go wi'out yer breakfast then!\" A final thump or kick, and she waddled\ndownstairs to the dining-room.\n\n\"No good, Mrs. Lee. 'Er's up to 'er tantrums, 'er's banged the door and\nturned the key.\"\n\nImmediately the floor-thumping overhead began again. Aunt Jael was\nleaning out of bed and prodding the floor with her stick. Blows rained\nthunderously, monotonously; it was no good pretending they were not\nthere, as I sometimes could for a few moments, relying on Grandmother's\ndeafness. Then the noise would cease. We heard the bound and spring.\nShe was out of bed, had opened the door and was howling downstairs over\nthe banisters, \"Hannah! Cheese! Child! Food, Food! I'm a-starvin', I'm\na-starvin'!\"\n\n\"Will you try once again, Mrs. Cheese, please?\" said my Grandmother.\n\"Or I will,\" she would add, seeing reluctance.\n\nThis always decided the old lady. To save Grandmother she puffed her\nway once more upstairs. Aunt Jael went on screaming from the landing,\n\"Food, food!\" till Mrs. Cheese was nearly up the stairs. Then she\nscuttled into her bedroom, and swiftly locked the door again.\n\n\"Starve away, ye old biddy, starve till ye die for all I care, an' I\n'ope 'tis middlin' quick.\" She descended, calling in at the dining-room\ndoor as she paused, \"I've done wi' the 'ole biddy fer iver.\"\n\nIn a few moments it all began again. Grandmother would have a journey,\nand then I. By the time our peaceful breakfast was over Aunt Jael had\nusually tired of her fun and was prepared to give in: another lengthy\nprocess. The first great step was when she got as far as leaving\nthe door open. Usually if Grandmother or Mrs. Cheese took in her\nbreakfast-tray she refused to have it near her and declared that the\nChild alone should bring her breakfast to her, the reason being that it\nwas time for school and that I, therefore, was the most inconvenient\nperson she could select. So they left the tray on the brass-nailed box\noutside her door, and I went in with it. Meanwhile she would close her\neyes and moan: \"I'm a-sinkin', I'm a-sinkin' for the want of food! A\npoor lonely woman left to starve! A-sinkin', a-sinkin', a-sinkin'--\"\nher voice sank to a tragic whisper. Next, of course, the egg was\ntoo soft or too hard boiled, according as we had been pessimists or\noptimists in gauging the duration of my lady's mood that morning.\n\nDressing her was the next trial. I escaped it except in the holidays.\nGrandmother had to see to every button and lace and hook, and be railed\nat the whole time. And so on, throughout the day, morning, afternoon,\nevening, week in, week out, till life was a misery. My nerves were\non edge, and if I kept my temper it was at the expense of my soul,\nwhich was filled with a devouring hate. There was one person, however,\nwhose temper would not and did not hold out, and that was Mrs. Cheese.\nOn that last day when my Great-Aunt sat up in bed and threw the\nwhole breakfast-tray at her--a notable feat--she picked up the metal\ntea-pot, the only whole article in the wreckage, poured hot tea on the\naggressor's face, and within a few hours had left the house. \"I've\nwarmed the ole biddy's nose, and this time I goes for iver.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen, somewhere in the summer of 1864, came Maud. She brought no\nreferences, this being her first place, nor in our dire need could we\ninsist on the usual requirements as to grace and salvation. She was not\nmore than seventeen or eighteen, hardly a year or so older than I was;\nthough with her hair up and her smart womanly attractive appearance she\nlooked several years my senior. I had gathered from the Bible and from\nthe talk at school that our sex was considered the more attractive, the\nbetter-looking, the more sought-after for its pleasingness. Neither\nthe many female Saints of my acquaintance nor any member of our\nhumble gallery of housemaids had helped me to understand. Maud was\nan explanation of much. Looking at her head of fine chestnut hair,\ngay pretty mouth and sparkling eyes, I began to apprehend why so many\nworthy folk--King David, King Solomon, Adam our first forefather--had\ngone astray. Her capacity for hard work equalled her good looks; her\npatience, good temper and self-sacrifice with Aunt Jael excelled them\nboth. Here was the first servant we had ever taken without certificate\nof godliness; and she was the best.\n\nFrom the beginning she devoted herself to Aunt Jael, who of course\nshouted at her, and told her she was a bold mincing hussy. She smiled.\nShe just went on cooking, dusting, laying the tea table, hooking the\nblouse, or whatever it might be, always with the same patient smile.\nAfter a while her absolute imperviousness to abuse and her excellence\nas a lady's maid began to mollify my Great-Aunt, who came to treat her\nquite passably to her face, and sing loud her praises as soon as she\nleft the room.\n\n\"There's a good girl, if you like, something like a girl. Do something\nfor her, Hannah! Give her five pounds and a new suit of clothes.\"\n\nThis last remark became a mania, and half a dozen times a day as the\ndoor closed upon Maud, Aunt Jael would shout at my Grandmother, \"Five\npounds, I say, five pounds, and a new suit of clothes!\" Neither did she\nproduce, however.\n\nTo my surprise Grandmother did not care very much for our new servant.\n\n\"Isn't she good, Grandmother?\" I asked one day.\n\nShe nodded her head and did not reply.\n\n\"You don't like her, Grandmother?\"\n\nNo reply.\n\n\"Why now, because she's not a Christian?\"\n\n\"No-o, my dear, I can't tell 'ee why. I don't like her: why, I don't\neven know myself; but there 'tis.\"\n\n\"But she's so good with aunt, and so patient.\"\n\n\"Yes--\"\n\n\"Well, why then?\"\n\n\"There 'tis, and that's all there is about it.\"\n\nI was puzzled, as Grandmother was always so generous. There must be\nsome mystery about Maud. Her beauty, a strange and new and troubling\nthing in my imagination. Her inhuman patience, equalling even my\nGrandmother's. And her carpet-slippers. She moved absolutely without\nsound.\n\nSoon after her arrival there was a new development. Aunt Jael's\nindigestion and sleeplessness and ill temper had been getting steadily\nworse till at last Grandmother had called in Doctor le Mesurier. He\nprescribed a stimulant: my Great-Aunt was to take a small dose of\nbrandy two or three times every twenty-four hours. Say a small dose at\none of her nocturnal repasts and a sip in a wine-glass after dinner.\nIt became one of my duties to go up to her bedroom after dinner,\nobtain the bottle from the secret cupboard, and pour out the measure.\nI brought it down and laid it on the corner of the table near her\nfireside perch.\n\nAfter a few days, I noticed that more of the brandy seemed to\ndisappear each day than two or even three doses in the night could\nexplain. It was a tall bottle of Cognac, the dose was less than an\ninch in a wine glass taken not more than twice each day, and yet in\nunder a week the bottle was empty. The fierce teetotalism of the\nlater-nineteenth-century Americanized Protestantism was unknown among\nthe Brethren, who followed more faithfully the old Puritan tradition\nand deemed a bottle of liquor a good thing if used and not abused. But\nthough drink had never loomed large in my imagination, I associated it\nvaguely with the snares of this world. Between Maud the worldly one\nwith her unfamiliar female beauty (snare of snares) and the vanishing\nbrandy the connection was so obvious that I need not have felt so\npleased with myself as I did when I first divined it. It was clear as\nnoonday. Maud was the thief. She had access to the cupboard at all\nhours, she was led into temptation, and had fallen. When I stared at\nher she would turn a little pale.\n\nAunt Jael was not yet aware of the theft. Clearly she was in her\ndotage, as the Cognac cost six shillings a bottle. Was it my duty,\nmy duty before the Lord, to speak out? I inclined to think so. Theft\nwas theft, and theft was sin, and sin should always be exposed for\nrighteousness' sake and the sinner's too. On the other hand, a voice\ninside me told me that it would be mean and cowardly to sneak on Maud.\nThe feeling of pleasure that Aunt Jael was being thieved from also\nurged silence. If both these notions weighed against my exposing Maud,\nyet one seemed in a sense to balance the other in my conscience, for I\ntried to justify my delight in seeing Aunt Jael robbed by pretending to\nmyself that the generous impulse of shielding Maud was my real reason\nfor keeping silence. As one bottle and then another disappeared with\nunmistakable speed, and the inroads on Aunt Jael's purse became more\nextensive and gratifying, my piece of self-deception began to wear\nhollow. Conscience pricked: \"_You_ know the real reason you are not\ntelling. You know it is to spite Aunt Jael and not to shield Maud.\n_You_ know.\"\n\nOne night I prayed for guidance. The answer was clear. My evil delight\nin Aunt Jael being robbed was a sin which I could only atone for by\nrepentance and by stopping the robbery, while to avoid having Maud\nexposed and dismissed (this had been in one way an argument for and not\nagainst telling, because the inevitable dismissal of so helpful a girl\nwould inconvenience Aunt Jael; though here again it cut both ways, as\nGrandmother and I would be inconvenienced and harried still more when\nshe was gone) it was my duty to speak to her privately. Thus she would\nbe spared, Aunt Jael protected, my sin atoned for, and justice done. I\nobeyed instantly, got out of bed, lit my candle and crept up to Maud's\nbedroom. I knocked timidly. There was a faint scuffling inside: she\nwas getting out of bed. She opened the door a few inches and her face\nappeared. It was sheet white. She was trembling violently.\n\n\"I am sorry, Maud, to wake you up, but I had to.\" I spoke hurriedly, a\nbit shamefacedly. \"If you won't do it again, I'll not tell.\"\n\n\"Miss--\" she gasped.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" I said frightened by her frightened appearance, \"I'll\npromise never to say a word.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Miss Mary, I'm sure,\" she said shakily, \"but oh, oh, you\ndid give me a start!\"\n\nAs she spoke she came right out of the room in her nightgown, shut the\ndoor behind her, and stood up against me on the half-landing, still\ntrembling.\n\n\"Why did you shut the door like that?\" I asked. Her extreme fear\npuzzled me.\n\nShe hesitated for a second. \"Oh, I must see you back to bed or you'll\nbe getting your death of cold.\"\n\n\"Good night, miss,\" she said. Before she blew out the candle I noticed\nthat her face was as white as ever.\n\nSomehow she had seemed _too_ frightened.\n\nAfter all, was stealing brandy so terrible? Was dismissal from Aunt\nJael's service so hideous a blow? Then there was the way she had closed\nthe door behind her.\n\nI heard her creep her way upstairs. My heart stood still as I heard\nanother door open quite near me; Grandmother's by the sound of it.\nNo doubt she had been awakened and had heard our going to and fro on\nthe stairs. I sat up in bed so as to hear better. I fancied she was\nstanding at her door as though listening. Then a voice spoke, sounding\nstrangely in the silence. It was my Grandmother's.\n\n\"Child, what are you doing? Is that you, child? What are you doing?\"\n\nI jumped out of bed and opened my door. \"What is it, Grandmother? I'm\nhere, what is it?\"\n\nAn odd expression came into her eyes.\n\n\"Then who was it going downstairs just now? Somebody crouched when I\ncalled out, then seemed to wriggle their way further down; somebody in\nwhite, like your nightgown. I thought you were sleepwalking.\"\n\nSome one in white wriggling downstairs! Was not Grandmother herself\nsleepwalking? It could not be Maud, for I had heard her close her door.\n\n\"Maud!\" called my Grandmother.\n\n\"Yes'm,\" replied a voice with amazing quickness. She had been\nlistening. But she spoke from _upstairs_. \"Yes'm, did you call me, m'm?\"\n\nAt this moment the front door of the house was unmistakably opened and\nthen closed again. Some one had gone out.\n\nMy Grandmother, an odd little figure in her nightcap and gown, looked\nvery grave. \"Get to bed, Maud,\" she called, \"and you too, child.\"\n\nAfter pondering a certain terrible suspicion in my mind for a few\nminutes, I fell asleep.\n\nNext morning I shirked seeing Maud. I felt shamefaced for what I had\nsaid to her in the night and far more for the thing I had hardly dared\nto think. I got downstairs later than usual. The dining-room was dark,\nthe blinds had not been drawn. I went into the kitchen; there were no\nsigns of life, the fire had not been lit. I rushed upstairs to her\nbedroom and burst in without knocking; she was not there, the drawers\nof the bedroom chest were pulled out and emptied, her box had gone. She\nhad run away.\n\nMonths later, I saw a well-dressed young woman in the street. The face\nwas familiar. She was wheeling a baby's perambulator. She looked the\nother way.\n\nNothing was said to Aunt Jael, who theorized on Maud's mysterious\ndeparture, and declared that my Grandmother's cruel treatment had\nforced her to flee for her life. She cursed at Maud for an ingrate,\nthough still fitfully maintaining that she was well worth five pounds,\nnot to mention a new suit of clothes.\n\nMaud's departure marked the beginning of a still more miserable period\nat Bear Lawn. We were unable for some time to get another servant, and\nthough Sister Briggs came in twice a week to help, there was more than\nenough work for Grandmother and me, especially as it was term-time.\nI had to get up at half past five, light the kitchen fire, sweep the\nrooms, and help Grandmother with the breakfast. I had to cook, sew,\ndust, do my homework, and dance continual attendance on Aunt Jael. I\nwas wretched, but too hard driven to mope overmuch. Grandmother and\nI worked early and late, earning nothing but abuse from Aunt Jael,\nwho now ceased to do any work whatever, even to help with the cooking\nor to carve at table. Her temper became more ungovernable, her abuse\nmore outrageous. All her life she had had a certain dignity--harsh,\nunlovely, but still dignity--an august presence, a majesty in evil.\nThere was little trace of majesty or dignity in the nagging old shrew\nshe was becoming now. If you get into a pet because the sprouts are\nundercooked, hurl the vegetable-dish on the floor, tread the sprouts\ninto the carpet, cry \"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust\" (\"Brussels to\nBrussels\" would have been apter), wave the spoon with rage, and gurgle\nlike a stuck pig, you may be many many things, but dignified, no. This\nwas an almost daily experience.\n\nIn the middle of this period came her eightieth birthday. There was no\njubilee.\n\nMy chief Cross was my resolve of absolute evenness of temper. Evenness\nrather than serenity was the word: I could never take my Grandmother's\nquiet delight in sitting down under insult and injustice, as though\nthey were flattering temptations sent me by the Lord, tokens of\nheavenly privilege. I could always turn the other cheek, but never as\nthough I enjoyed it. Once when I had waited on Aunt Jael hand and foot\nall day; taking up her breakfast (after three or four attempts and\nplenty of frolic with the door), dressing her (\"no one else would do\"),\nmaking her bed and tidying her room (while she sat in a chair carping),\ncooking her a special dinner and arranging it on a little table by\nthe armchair (she felt too ill to sit up to table), doing her sewing\n(\"Clumsy little slut with the needle!\"), and reading to her aloud from\nthe Word (her eyes were too tired to read herself); when after tea I\nhad begun and finished the last chapter of Proverbs--\"Many daughters\nhave done virtuously but Thou excellest them all\"--and she had no\nfurther behest; I thought that at last I was free for a few moments.\nI sat down at the piano and began playing my new piece: Polish Dance\nin A Minor. I had not played more than a few bars when I heard her get\nup from her chair. Without warning I received a violent box on the\nears, with \"That for idling away without my permission on this ungodly\ntrash\" as she snatched the music and crumpled it up into a paper ball.\nThe blow was dealt with such force that I fell off the stool on to the\nfloor, where she began belabouring me with her stick.\n\nStruggling to my feet, I began in my intensest manner, bitterer than\nany rage: \"Oh may the Lord punish you, may He visit you with pain and\nillness and agony in this world--\" I do not know how far I had got but\nthe door opened and my Grandmother came in.\n\n\"My dear, you are beside yourself.\"\n\n\"Grandmother, hear me. I have toiled for her all day long, and now when\nI've sat down for a minute to practise she came behind me unawares and\ngave me a blow that knocked me on to the floor and then began flogging\nme with her stick.\"\n\n\"Sister--\" began my Grandmother.\n\n\"None of your 'sister,' if you please!\" She went up to Grandmother,\nwho was near the bookcase, and pushed her roughly against it. \"No\ninterfering, d'yer see? When the child does what I don't like, I do\nwhat I like to her. See?\" She clutched Grandmother by the shoulders,\nand began banging her viciously against the bookcase.\n\n\"You brute!\" I cried, and with a strength I should not have found\nin self-defence tore her away from Grandmother. Loosing hold, she\nturned on me; I ran for safety to the other side of my guardian-angel\ntable. She hesitated for a moment, remembering perhaps her ancient\ndignity, and then stalked out of the room. Which was after all the most\ndignified thing to do.\n\nThe fact was, her health and self-control were failing together; but if\nmore of a shrew, she was less shrewd than of old. She never noticed,\nfor instance, how the brandy was disappearing. The odd thing about this\nbrandy was that after Maud's departure it had been disappearing more\nquickly and mysteriously than ever. A new suspicion entered my mind.\nSister Briggs never went upstairs. It could not be Grandmother. It was\nnot magic. It was not me....\n\nOne day just before dinner, Aunt Jael had not yet appeared in the\ndining room. This was surprising; on her latest and worst days she\nusually descended by eleven o'clock.\n\n\"I've heard her moving about,\" said Grandmother. \"Dinner is ready, give\nher a call.\"\n\nBefore I had time to obey, however, I heard her bedroom door open. We\nsat down to table. The dining-room door was open, and I fancied there\nwas something odd and shuffling in the way she was coming downstairs.\nThen I was startled by a series of thuds; it sounded as though she had\nlost her footing, and fallen down the last two or three stairs. We ran\nout, for Grandmother had heard too.\n\n\"Are you hurt, Jael?\" She was lying full length on the bottom stair,\nher face was dark and flushed, her eyes odd and bleary. She appeared\nstunned, though it surprised me that to fall two or three stairs should\nhave had so serious an effect.\n\nShe did not answer Grandmother, but began slavering and hiccoughing.\n\n\"Give her five poundsh an' a new shuit of clothes.\" The sentence was\nbroken by hiccoughs. My nostrils caught the sudden reek of spirits.\n\nAunt Jael was drunk.\n\nI looked at Grandmother and Grandmother looked at me. She spoke in a\nlow voice, and there were tears in her eyes. \"'Tis hard, my dear. Your\naunt has lived a godly sober life these eighty years--and now, look! We\nmust take it as His will.\"\n\nResolves are weak, and pity is stronger than hate. I had been looking\nforward all my life and during the past few weeks more venomously\nthan ever to the day when I should see my hated Aunt the victim of\nsome supreme humiliation. The day was here. There she lay: drunken,\nshameful, loathsome. Surely this was humiliation enough. I should have\nexulted in her shame; I was indeed wicked enough to have done so, but\nthat some one different in me, the Other Me (at such moments of extreme\nalternative between good and evil I always felt the Second Presence),\nhad only pity and sorrow. My cheeks burned as I thought of how I had\nbeen looking forward to a triumph like this. I saw in a flash the\nshamefulness of spite, the folly of all revenge.\n\nWe tried to lift her up. She was too heavy, especially as she resisted,\nat first dully and then with vigour. I stepped over her body on to the\nsecond stair. When I knelt down and began pulling at her shoulder she\nstruck me with her fist and set up a shriek of \"Murder!\" The sudden\nnoise deterred us. With tipsy cunning she noticed this, and followed up\nher success; shrieking \"Murder!\" again and again like a thing demented.\n\nIn the middle of pandemonium the front door knocker sounded.\nGrandmother was on the other side of Aunt Jael, and went to see who it\nmight be. It was the curate from the Parish Church, who had recently\ncome to live next door, No. 6 The Lawn. We had never spoken to him and\nhardly knew his name.\n\n\"Er--umph--Madam, I trust you will excuse me; but we--er--fancied there\nwas some trouble in your house. We _heard_ something, Mrs. White and I,\nand I wondered if I could--er--perhaps _help_ in any way.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, you could,\" said my Grandmother. \"Come in. My sister has had\na seizure. She's not herself at all. My grandchild and I haven't the\nstrength between us to lift her upstairs to bed. You'll kindly help us?\nCome along the hall to the foot of the stairs. This way, will you?\"\n\nI prayed inwardly that he would not discover the truth, but as he bent\ndown to take Aunt Jael's shoulder I noticed the slightest twitch of\nhis nostrils followed immediately by an involuntary I-thought-as-much\nexpression which he instantly concealed.\n\nIt was a memorable journey upstairs. How she writhed and punched and\nstruck and spat and shrieked. Somehow we got her there and somehow we\nlaid her on the bed.\n\nWe went downstairs to show the Reverend Mr. White out. \"I shall\nbe discretion itself,\" he volunteered meaningly. I saw a shade of\nannoyance on Grandmother's face; she had not noticed that he had\nnoticed.\n\nWhen we returned upstairs after the Reverend Mr. White had gone we\nfound her bedroom door locked. For no entreaty would she let us in.\nLater on my Grandmother pleaded earnestly to let her take her in some\nfood. There was no reply. All through the night her door remained\nlocked; I tried it half a dozen times. Next morning we could do no\nbetter. With the infinite resources of her cupboard she had of course\nenough to eat; but--this was our anxiety--she had far too much to drink\nalso. There was a bottle of sherry, but as far as I remembered not more\nthan an inch or two of brandy in the current bottle. Still our fears\nwere of the darkest.\n\nBy Tuesday dinner-time our anxiety had reached a climax. In a few\nminutes the Clinkers would arrive. Grandmother had half a mind to send\nme round to tell them not to come; decided that this would be likelier\nto excite suspicion than letting them come in the ordinary way, and\ntelling them that Jael was not well enough to appear.\n\nAt half-past one sounded the immemorial rat-tat-tat. Salvation was\nfirst. She rushed in and flung her arms round my Grandmother's neck.\n\n\"Oh, my pore 'Annah, what a trial! Pore dear Jael. Who'd 'a' thought\nit?\" Her teeth shone. She wheezed unwelcome sympathy.\n\n\"Salvation,\" asked my Grandmother sternly, \"who told you?\"\n\n\"Aw my dear, 'tis the talk uv th' town. Brother Obadiah Tizzard came to\nsee Glory this mornin' as 'e sometimes does uv a mornin' to discourse\non 'oly things, an' 'e told _us_ jis what 'is servant, ole Jenny Fippe,\n'ad to'd _'im_. 'Er 'ad it from 'er young niece who's friendly like\nwith a young man who sings in the choir, or whatever 'tis they caals'\nit, at the parish church, 'im havin' been to'd by the passon 'imself,\nwho lives next door to you, who say 'e were called in 'ere by most\n_'orrible_ shrieks, so Brother Obadiah says Jenny says, and 'e see'd\npore dear Jael in a _turrible_ way, wavin' a bottle o' brandy in one\n'and an' poundin' 'is face till 'twere all a pulp of blood with the\nother. 'You've got a wrong story this time, Brother Obadiah Tizzard,' I\nsays, 'Jael Vickary is my oldest friend and the soberest woman in North\nDevon. 'Tis all a passel O' lies, Brother Obadiah, you mark my words,'\nsays I, didn't I, Glory, says I? Aw my pore dear Jael, she's in bed\nmaybe. Take me to 'er, 'Annah.\"\n\n\"No,\" said my Grandmother very firmly. \"What you heard is very much\nmore than the truth, and you'll please me to keep a quiet tongue in\nyour head about it a bit better than the parson did. But she's not\nwell, and you're not to see her.\"\n\nIt was a constrained gathering that afternoon; our godly discussion\nhalted lamely at times. We were all relieved when Grandmother went into\nthe kitchen rather earlier than usual to prepare tea. While she was out\nof the room, I heard Aunt Jael's door open: Grandmother had left the\ndining-room door open. I did not know for a moment what to do, whether\nto rush upstairs to prevent Aunt Jael descending, or fly into the\nkitchen to warn Grandmother, when it might be too late. I did nothing.\nThe three of us sat in breathless silence as she stumped downstairs,\nand watched with open mouths and breathless excitement till a horrible\nbird-like apparition in night-cap and gown came in. Her eyes were still\nbloodshot, but she was different from yesterday; merry-maudlin, not\nvicious drunk. Fortunately, as I had judged, there had been very little\nmore brandy, and she had had recourse to wine. She pranced up to her\nvisitors, chuckling idiotically.\n\n\"Good day to 'ee Salvation, Good day to 'ee Glory!\" She chucked them\nunder the chin, dug them slyly in the ribs, tweaked their solemn ears.\nShe had a look of beatific idiocy on her red beaky old face, and a\ntipsy laugh broken by stalwart hiccoughs.\n\n\"You'm thinkin'--hic--I'm tipsy. Nothin'--hic--of the kin'--'Tis a very\ngoo'--hic--imitashun, a very goo'--hic--imitashun.\"\n\nShe seized a couple of forks from the table, which I had just finished\nlaying for tea, took one in each fist and began to perform a series\nof dumb-bell exercises, alternating one movement up with both arms,\none forward, and one to the sides, giggling and chuckling inanely the\nwhile. She looked like a performing parrot dressed in white. For a\nfew moments Glory, Salvation and I had been undecided whether to take\nthe performance as tragedy or farce. Suddenly we all began laughing\ntogether, and were soon giggling as uncontrollably as Aunt Jael herself.\n\nShe tired of the dumb-bell exercises, threw down the forks and cried\nout \"Come on now, letsh have a game.\" Before we knew where we were\nthe four of us were whirling round and round in the space between the\ntable and the fireplace, singing \"Ring a ring of roses,\" like the four\nlunatics and godly Plymouth Sisters that we were. Three of us were\neighty years old and the fourth not yet eighteen. At the high tide of\nthe bacchanal we became suddenly and stupidly aware that Grandmother\nwas at the door; sane, inexorable, watching us. We parted hands lamely.\nAunt Jael, dizzy and without support, tottered back against the\nfiregrate and would have fallen headlong had I not rushed forward just\nin time to save her.\n\n\"She's a good li'l girl, Hannah, after all; she's a good li'l girl.\nGive her something, give her--\"\n\n\"Give her what then?\" said my Grandmother, wishing to humour her.\n\n\"Five poundsh, my dear, and a new shuit of clothes!\"\n\n\nThe Aunt Jael that rose months later from her sick bed was not the\ndemented wretch of that tipsy summer; rather the old one I knew, but\nwith memory and will and voice and authority all weaker. The great\ndomineerer had passed into her dotage; was but the valiant wreck of an\nautocrat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV: PROSPECTS\n\n\nI left the Misses Primps' at the end of the summer term of 1865; I was\nin my eighteenth year.\n\nMy Grandmother told me that Lord Tawborough was looking around for\n\"a good opening\" for me. The interval of waiting was to be spent\nperfecting my French and music, and I was to begin Italian with Miss\nle Mesurier. Uncertainty sent my fancies and ambitions in disorderly\nriot through the whole gamut of possibilities and impossibilities;\ntransported me to every county in turn, from Cornwall to Caithness,\nto every manner of dwelling, from palaces to pagodas. Sometimes\nI saw myself with a tyrant for taskmistress--Aunt Jael to the\n_n_th--sometimes employed by Fairy Godmother or Lady Bountiful.\n\nSomewhere about New Year of 1866, Lord Tawborough wrote. He had\nobtained, he thought, an excellent opening for me, and would visit us\nat once to communicate it. This news brought me to a high pitch of\nexcitement, which culminated on the day he came.\n\nI was to go to France!--as companion rather than governess to a French\ngirl a year or two younger than myself; to perfect her English, and\ntalk English also with an elder sister who was about my own age. The\ntwo girls lived with their widowed mother in a big ch\u00e2teau in Normandy,\nthough part of the year was spent in the family house in Paris. Lord\nTawborough and his father before him had had friendly relations with\nthe family, which was old, illustrious and wealthy. I should meet the\nbest type of French people, and have the opportunity of perfecting my\nown French. I should be kept, of course, and receive a salary of four\nhundred francs (sixteen pounds) a year.\n\nAs he unfolded this gorgeous prospect I was ravished with delight.\nForeign Lands! Normandy! Ch\u00e2teaux! Paris! But Grandmother--why was she\nlooking doubtful, unmoved?\n\n\"Papists?\" she asked him, keenly.\n\n\"They are Roman Catholics.\" This as though somehow a palliative.\n\nMy heart stopped. I scented battle. Lord Tawborough counter-attacked\nbefore the forces of objection could muster.\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Lee: Papists, of course, like nearly all French people. But\nwhat an opportunity for Mary! If she could help them to a better way,\nit would be achieving more than to convert a hundred heathen!\"\n\nHis tongue was in his cheek. Conscience called: Denounce his lies!\nAmbition urged furiously: Keep silence! My heart was throbbing, as\nthe battle of selves raged within. I saw that Grandmother took his\nfalse words in good faith: Ambition was the winning-side and stifled\nConscience utterly.\n\n\"True,\" said my Grandmother, and accepted with sober gratitude. Aunt\nJael grunted warmer approval. I thanked him with tears of pleasure.\n\nDetails were arranged. I was to go in April, a few weeks after my\neighteenth birthday. There was never any direct correspondence;\nLord Tawborough made all arrangements. Towards my expenses he gave\nfive pounds, which Grandmother most furiously spent in \"a new shuit\nof clothes.\" In all I had three new dresses, the finest I had ever\npossessed; I had no suspicion of how dowdy they might look in my new\nsurroundings. Lord Tawborough, however, to whom Aunt Jael proudly\ndisplayed them, must have had the gravest suspicions, for in spite of\nresistance he sent me to the best dressmaker in the town for a white\nsilk \"evening\" dress, and to the ladies' tailor in Boutport Street for\na smart new riding-habit. For parting-present Aunt Jael gave me a set\nof bone-backed hair-brushes; Glory and Salvation a pair of kid gloves\nand a silk scarf; Pentecost Dodderidge a New Testament with an original\nhymn inscribed in the title page; Mrs. Cheese a plain gold brooch\nand green parasol, the Meeting a magnificent French Bible in limp\nred morocco, which was presented to me publicly at my last Breaking\nof Bread; Brother Browning a Scotch travelling rug; my Grandmother\na photograph of my mother I had often begged for and cried over and\nkissed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLet me put down what I was like at this moment of leaving the old life.\n\nI was of average height, but slight build: a frail inconspicuous\nfigure, with small limbs, neatly made perhaps, if too thin for\nshapeliness. I looked so young for my age that when only a day or two\nbefore my departure I first put my hair up, there was a ridiculous\ncontrast between the adult austere bun--Victorian fashion, at the back,\nlumpy, far-protruding--and the fifteen-year-old face. Or so I thought,\nlaughing into the mirror. My appearance was one of the few things I was\nnot vain of--not yet--or I should have wept rather than laughed: ugly\nstraight rebellious hair; eyes between green and grey-green, weak and\noften sore; a short pointed and unpleasant nose. On the other hand, a\nshapely well-cut mouth, and my mother's delicate complexion. When not\ntearful and sulky, my habitual expression was one of Quakerish meekness\nand demureness, wholly natural and wholly unconscious: at any rate\nnow, and until the Serpent showed me that in this quakerishness lay a\nspecies of attraction.\n\nOn the whole I kept a silent tongue in my head; was voluble only\nbefore an audience: Lord Tawborough, or the girls at school whom\nI regaled with Aunt Jael, or (most important) myself, my oldest\naudience. My manners were of a piece with my appearance: meek,\nnervous, old-fashioned, though very \"grown-up,\" in odd contrast with\nmy appearance. Here also I discovered later there lurked an asset, an\nattracting quality.\n\nPerhaps I was clever. It was a woman's cleverness, sureness not of\nintellect but of intuition, coupled with an uncanny judgment in matters\nwhere my own emotions were at stake or in the motives and actions of\nothers. No. 8 Bear Lawn and No. 1 The Quay were my forcing-beds. I\nwas incapable of connected thought as opposed to connected emotion,\nand I had no haziest notion of science or logic or business affairs.\nMy two possessions were an imagination so vivid that I saw, at once,\n_physically_ and with a perfect clearness of outline, whatever I\nthought of, and a memory so retentive, alike for facts and faces, that\nI can fairly describe it as one of the two or three best I have ever\nknown.\n\nThere was a good deal of knowledge in my head: a lob-sided mass. What\nI knew, if usual for my age, was much less remarkable than what I did\nnot know. My three special acquirements were: first, an intimate\nacquaintance with the Word of God that is hardly conceivable today and\nwas rare even fifty years ago. Second, excellent French: the new life\nwould give me the practice to make perfect. Third, the knowledge of\nhistory I had picked up in my French reading. Novels, romances, poetry,\nwere all forbidden; except therefore for Huguenot works, devotional and\ndoctrinal, with which Miss le Mesurier had bravely persevered, we were\nforced to fall back exclusively on history.\n\nI re-produced the drama of history on a gigantic stage, as wide as\nTime, and cast myself for all the leading r\u00f4les. Here again the old\nhandicap of sex enraged me: even though it was all make-believe,\nyet for me, a woman, to live again the deeds of _men_, was but\nmake-believe. Almost all the best parts had been taken by men; women\nwere slaves, nobodies; unwanted, oppressed; man's victim--or audience.\nI delighted all the more to read of those few women who, at moments\nthroughout the centuries, had held the stage: Joan of Arc, Isabella of\nCastile, Elizabeth Tudor, Elizabeth Farnese. I took a pleasure no man\ncould understand in reflecting that among the monarchs of England, no\nless than five were queens-regnant. The most extreme delight lay in\nthe deeds of tyrant women. When I read of Queen Cleopatra or Empress\nCatherine lording it over their subjects--_men_--dealing out sensual\ncruelties and senseless barbarities to _men_--riding roughshod over\nthe pride and power of _men_--I exulted, breathed hard for joy. It\nwas an instinct stronger than will, some atavistic legacy; against\nmy own tastes, too, for in my experience--wide in imagination if\npitifully narrow in fact--I liked men better than women; against my\nreligion also. This I discovered at the Misses Primps', when we were\ndoing English history. I found that the great Marian burnings of\nthe Protestants, with whom alike as Plymouth Sister and human being\nI sympathized, gave me at one and the same time a feeling of evil\nexaltation, inasmuch as it was a _woman_, albeit Bloody Mary, who had\nthe power to send hundreds of _men_ to the stake. In the great Malagasy\npersecution of my own day, my burning sympathy with the Christian\nmartyrs hurled over the vulture-haunted rock of Ambohipotsy was stifled\nby a brutal lilting pleasure that the persecutor was a queen, a woman.\nCleopatra, Catherine, Mary Tudor, Ranavalona, all these, however bad\nand cruel, had striven to redress the balance of wrong which was at all\ntimes weighted against their sex and mine.\n\nThe Bible, Brethren Theology, French, some history; that was the\nsum-total of what I knew. What I did not know was much more remarkable.\nNothing of art, fiction, poetry, romance; never a word of Shakespeare,\nScott, Milton; nothing of contemporary books or events or persons; not\neven the names of Palmerston, Bright, Disraeli, Dickens, Thackeray,\nTennyson. I did just know that the Duke of Wellington was dead, that a\nwar somehow concerned with negro slaves was raging across the Atlantic,\nand that a new Napoleon reigned in France. I had never been to any form\nof lecture, concert, or entertainment, nor into any normal household\nof healthy young people. Fireside games, the ordinary interests of\ngirlhood, the hundred happinesses of family life were all unknown. I\nhad never seen a newspaper, touched a pack of cards, nor smelt tobacco.\n\nMy character was what these twenty-three chapters should have\ndisplayed. If it had not shown the steady development of a normal life,\nstill less of a novelist's creation, it was because my circumstances\nand surroundings did not change or enlarge in ordinarily gradual\nfashion. My life was a stringing-together of certain special events and\noutstanding memories--Beetle, Benamuckee, fear that the world would\nend, knowledge of how life began, the terrible epoch of Torribridge,\nBaptism, Brandy--each of which had brought suddenly a new series of\nemotions. Fundamentally I changed little. At eighteen I was as at\neight, only \"more so\"; my hates and hopes were vivider. On the whole I\nwas less unhappy than in my early childhood. The reason was that I had\ncome to visualize and daydream more in the future than in the past; to\nhope more than to regret. But always I was lonely.\n\nThe experience of divine companionship had not made me want human\nlove less. Self-absorbed to mania, I yet wanted nothing so much as to\nmerge my individuality and dissolve my self in a loved being. Loving\nmyself, my supreme hope was some one I could love more. The some one\nwas ordained unalterably, and day and night alike my thoughts were\nof Robbie--my Robbie; i. e., the real Robbie up to seven years ago,\nand a creation of my own fashioning since. On Christmas Nights, I\nhad him about as near and as physical as ever, though never near nor\nreal enough for my need, never the comfort of flesh and blood and of\nperfect spiritual contact for which I hungered and waited. I feared the\nwaiting might be long. Instinct left no doubt that one day we should\nmeet, and mate, and marry; but forbade that I should try to force the\nevent or seek to discover where he might be or how I might come upon\nhim. Temptation overcame me during one rare visit of Aunt Martha's;\nshe knew, however, nothing. Yet why need I worry? As sure as heaven or\nhell he would come to me. I had earned love; for all my long unhappy\nmotherless young life Robbie was my requital. So much did I believe\nalso in the complementary doctrine of an Envious Power that I was\nhalf-frightened at the success and pleasure the new life abroad seemed\nto promise. Surely I should have to pay for it, perhaps by losing\nRobbie. God gets even.\n\nOther doubts assailed. Might it not all be a mad vision? Did Robbie\nstill remember me as I him, live for me as I for him? Was it he\nhimself--in his own bed, wherever it was--who came to me, to be with\nme, on the anniversaries of our embrace; or was it my own intense\nlonging and imagination that created the appearance of his presence,\nwhich might exist in my mind only and not in his? No! the experience\nwas too magical not to be real. He remembered me, visited me, and\none day in plain reality would come to claim me. But again--when he\ncame--would love be a complete and perfect thing? Was perfect love\npossible? Should I be able to mingle my tired and fearful soul for ever\nand utterly in his, confide in him the utmost secret of my being, lose\nmyself--my Self--in him; and, one soul in two bodies, affront together\nthe terrors of Eternity? \"It is not possible,\" leered Doubt. \"Your soul\nmust stand alone; no love can break down the barrier of its eternal\nisolation. _You are alone for ever._\"\n\nThen Doubt gave place to Hope, and I fell to enjoying the security\nand peace of giving myself to him, all my love, my fears: one soul in\ntwo bodies, clasped in each other's arms. Pride would second Hope.\nRobbie would be great, famous, honoured: a warrior, poet, statesman--I\nfavoured each in turn. I would shine in his reflected glory. I felt no\ndiscontent at this secondary r\u00f4le, and reverting to the true type of\na woman's megalomania, built not for myself but for my boy a hundred\nsplendid futures.\n\nI had other ambitions: to see the world, live in new houses, meet\nwonderful people; to do well in life, become powerful, famous; somehow,\nanyhow--through fame as Robbie's wife, as ambassadress perhaps or, in\nmadder moments, queen. Then there was the old desert-island business,\nin which as a female Robinson Crewjoe I was to burst with _panache_\nof ostrich feathers and panoply of fame on an astonished world. Or I\nwould see myself Tzarina--Mary the Great, Empress and Autocrat of All\nthe Russias, Queen of Poland, Grand Duchess of Finland, etc., etc.,\netc.; or Queen of Spain; or Anywhere. Never, mind you, the mere idle\ncastle-in-the-air builder! Every detail of the steps by which I was\nto scale these megalomanic heights was worked out in my mind; every\nmoment of agony, labour, deception, experienced in my heart. My first\ngesture in success--I sometimes tried to deceive myself it was my chief\nobject--was to do good, succour the poor, spread the Gospel, lead poor\ndarkened Russia or poor heathen Spain from the false gods of Byzantium\nor Rome to my own true God of Plymouth--and the Taw. A sop to God for\nletting me succeed.\n\nIf I could not change this natural bent of egotism in my imaginings, I\nwas able by prayer and Resolutions to curb my selfishness in the things\nof daily life. My Grandmother's example helped. Whenever she did an\nunselfish deed I should have thought to do myself, I flushed quickly\nwith shame, and was readier for the next occasion. In every written\nResolution \"Do unto others\" came to figure first.\n\nNor did Ambition fill all my visualizings. As often as creating these\nmad fantastic events that _might_ happen, I was creating the exact\nshape and setting of various events that _had_ to happen. My arrival\nat the Ch\u00e2teau, how Madame la Comtesse and her daughter would greet\nme, my bedroom, the details of my daily work: all these were envisaged\na hundred times with a hundred variations. Aunt Jael's death; when,\nhow, why?--Should I be summoned from France for the funeral, if it\nhappened while I was abroad?--My feelings, my anticipated sentimental\nlooking-back as though she was dead already: \"Poor Aunt Jael, she was\nhard and cruel at times, _but still_--\" My softening towards her for a\nfew days. (It is no bad plan, indeed, always to treat our fellow-beings\nwith the same respect living as we should give them dead.) Or\nGrandmother's death: and my far-off return to England; or my own death,\nand the first few moments after death.\n\nThe three things I pictured and lived through more often than any\nothers were three meetings that I knew lay somewhere before me in the\npath of real life. Two would be meetings-again, the other a first\nencounter.\n\nRobbie. Uncle Simeon. My Father.\n\nDramatic scenes of these three encounters I worked out a hundred times\nwith the fullest details of time, place and setting: the luxury of\nfirst moments, the splendour or scorn of the respective d\u00e9nouements. I\nknew what I should say first. I framed every word of the conversation\nthat followed, experienced every phase of joy, melodrama and hate. How\nfar the realities resembled the anticipations; and how far Instinct was\nright in telling me--against all appearance--that I was approaching\nthese three inevitable events by going to France, the sequel will show.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have called myself worldly. It is true, except that the one reality\nto which through all agonies I held was not of this world at all. At\nmoments when my mood could summon no happiness from the past nor hope\nfrom the future, I had always a last refuge-place in the ineffable Love\nof God, as I had felt it once and for all in one miraculous instant. I\nknew it was more real than the world around me or than the fears of my\nown mind; as the supernatural was more real than the natural, the thing\nintuitively felt than the fact ascertained, magic than reason. I could\nseek refuge from trouble in a state of magical divine consciousness, in\nwhich, at perfect moments, I lost all sense of time and space and self,\nall physical sensation, all power to think--everything but Love. I was\na soul only, the soul of all the world. I ceased to be anything. I was\neverything. I was God and God was I.\n\nI attained this state chiefly by passionate prayer. Sometimes, however,\nthe trance came upon me quite involuntarily. Some notion or idea or\nword threw me before I knew into a transport of delight. Chalcedony,\nJerusalem, rosemary, tribulation: the sound of these words filled me\nwith exquisite and supernatural sensations. I would clasp my breasts,\nclose my eyes, and open my heart passionately to the presence of God.\n\nOn a lower plane were my trick-methods of attaining mystical\nsensation: staring at myself or kissing myself in the mirror, crooning\nan everlasting \"I--I--I\" or calling aloud my own name for echoes.\nDifferent again--a superstitious offshoot of intuition--were my signs,\nomens, fetishes, lucky numbers. If I could walk to Meeting in exactly a\nlucky number of paces, I knew the service would be specially blessed to\nme; and inevitably it was. The distance I could cover in running across\na field and counting say seventy-seven was the exact measure, thus\nmagically conveyed to me, of a property or estate which would one day\nbe mine. If a lucky number came my way of its own initiative, it was\nan omen of unusual import. Thus when I learnt that the Paris house of\nmy French family was No. 77 Rue St. Eloy, I was certain of high times\nthereat.\n\nIn all Mrs. Cheese's superstitions, ranging from West Country\nwitchcraft to the happiness of horseshoes or lucklessness of ladders,\nI believed without reserve. I practised Bible-opening, which was about\nthe only superstition of my Grandmother's. The first verse that caught\nthe eye--or, in my rite, the most heavily red-chalked passage, or,\nfailing that, a verse seven or thirty-seven--had a special God-sent\nmessage for the moment's need.\n\nHaving discovered the (for me) supernatural nature of the world, my\nmistake was to press my discovery too far. I was in danger of believing\nthat I could do anything, however omnipotent or divine, if I only knew\nthe trick; conjure up any supreme sensation, open the door of all power\nand mystery and pleasure, if I but found the Open Sesame. I sought for\nthe catchword which would destroy all Existence; am seeking it still.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nReal things that happened did not approach the reality of my\nsupernatural experience until they had been brooded upon a while in\nmy heart, until my thoughts and passions had imbued them with life.\nAt the actual moment of great occurrences--Uncle Simeon's threats,\nAunt Jael's curses, Lord Tawborough's great proposal--I deliberately\nprevented myself receiving the full emotional effect. Later, alone with\nmyself, I re-lived the scene, and took my fill of rage, bitterness,\npride, delight. Thus any event affected me much more after it had\nhappened than at the time. The instant anger with which Aunt Jael's\nblow filled me was nothing to the brooding rage and revengefulness of\nthe next day. The pang of unavoidable shame with which Conscience smote\nme when I did a mean or cowardly deed was as nothing to the agony of\nself-scorn I underwent when some long-past meanness of mine returned\nto my memory--as new and naked as the meanness of some one else. This\nwhole childhood of mine is more vivid than when I lived it.\n\nIf past events were more real than present ones, future ones were the\nmost vivid of all. The past is imagination and memory working together.\nThe future is imagination pure. The past was Aunt Jael, floggings,\ndreariness, tears; Uncle Simeon, terror, cruelty; a childhood cowering,\nloveless. The future was joy, in a hundred wonderful shapes--Robbie,\nsomehow, some time; noble ladies, ch\u00e2teaux of France; visions of\nhistory, splendour and romance; a fairy land of fame, pleasure and\nglory--peopled, permeated, queened by Mary Lee. For the last few weeks\nat home my soul lived at Bear Lawn no longer. Morning, noon and night,\nsleeping and waking, I dwelt in the imaginary land.\n\n\nFour days before I left I closed my diary and handed it, a\nsealing-waxed parcel of exercise-books, to my Grandmother. This was the\nlast entry:--\n\n\n    During the past year or two the Lord has been exceeding good to\n    me. Fortune has been unusual--for any one. When I started this\n    volume of my Diary, I was at the Misses Primps', with no prospects\n    at all of anything _high_; no hope. And now, I am becoming a lady\n    (almost); and I am going to France, la belle France! Life is\n    mysterious, and God is good.... In my inward life, too, I started\n    this book in the throes of the fiercest fear I have even known.\n    Terror, appallment, awe of the Lord God and His eternal years; all\n    these assailed me so that I thought I should never stand free. Am\n    happier now: slowly yet surely, the fullness of earthly life, the\n    new hopes springing in my heart, the final though hard acceptance\n    of the truth that it is useless for me (finite Mary) to measure\n    the length and breadth and age of God, and most of all that\n    precious memory of His Holy Spirit, that I can ever invoke in all\n    sorrowful times,--all these have brought me to be able to do what\n    my Grandmother does, and to _Trust in the Lord_.\n\n    Life moves mysteriously. It is that walk near Torribridge years\n    ago, when I met the Stranger, that is taking me to France now. And\n    somehow, some time--I don't know how, but I _know_--France will\n    take me back to Torribridge--to R. Shall I meet him in the foreign\n    land? I do not know. But he is coming. All my love is poured out on\n    the only boy-image that has ever interested me; all my passion I\n    have bestowed on one shape only, on my Image, my R.--tenderness and\n    tears, and meeting lips and bodies; and he takes me in his arms.\n    How I long to see him! that I may know his identity with my Image\n    of him, to know for always and ever that the Robbie I live with\n    and live for is the real eighteen-year-old Robbie who--God make it\n    so!--lives for me.\n\n    Now Bear Lawn is behind me, and all is new and wonderful ahead:\n    _happiness is coming_. Good bye Grandmother dear! This is the end\n    of my girlhood's book; one day I may find joy--and sadness--in\n    reading it.\n\n    MARY LEE.\n\n    April, 1865.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV: I SAY GOOD-BYE\n\n\nThe last day arrived, a bright showery Sunday in April. I was to leave\nearly next morning. Lord Tawborough would see me as far as Southampton.\n\nAt my last Breaking of Bread many allusions were made in prayer to my\ndeparture for foreign lands. If I was not going there avowedly in His\nservice, none the less let His service be my chief aim and effort. I\nworshipped devoutly. This might be the last Lord's Supper of which\nI should ever partake. The Lord's People in France were the merest\nhandful; there were not more than four Meetings in all the Empire, of\nwhich not one, Grandmother had ascertained, was in Paris or the north\nor any part I was likely to be near. And I might be abroad three or\nfour years without a holiday in England.\n\nNow that at last my hopes and ambitions were being fulfilled, sadness\nand regret were uppermost. The old life I knew so well, the present\nin which I had still one day to live, already seemed far behind me. I\nlooked back in the anticipatorily retrospective fashion of all who live\nin the future; and to whom, living in the future, the present is always\nalready the past.\n\nAlready Bear Lawn was the past, decked with a pathos that as the\npresent it had never worn.\n\nThe last dinner was a goodly spread: a roast fowl, a hog's pudding, and\napple dumplings with clotted cream. Glory and Salvation were invited.\nThe latter slobbered noisily of how she would miss me; I realized with\na sudden sentimental pang that, after all, it might be true. Glory\nwept till the tears streamed down her cheeks on to her untidy bodice;\nI watched with a feeling of guilt for her sorrow and the increasing\nshamefulness of her blouse.\n\nThe last night was full of odd pauses and silences. Aunt Jael kept\nlooking at me and looking away quickly when I looked back. She tried to\nkeep up an appearance of stoicism and sternness, and knew that she was\nfailing. At the last moment she gave up all pretence. In my emotional\nmood, she seemed to atone for years of hardness when she turned sharply\naway from the Book of Proverbs at which her Bible opened--it was real\nsacrifice--and chose for the nightly portion my 137th Psalm. I thought\nof that dismal first night at Torribridge so many years ago.\n\nLater on, at my bedside, my Grandmother prayed a long devoted prayer.\n\"Oh Lord Jesus! How my old heart aches when I am sometimes tempted\nto fear that she may be unworthy of that Saint who sits with Thee,\nher dear dear mother. Grant that in foreign lands and the cities of\nthe plain she may shun the ungodly and flee from all worldliness and\nevil. Grant, Oh Lord, that we three may meet together in Thine Own\neverlasting arms. For Jesus' sake.\"\n\nNext morning I was up betimes. Mrs. Cheese, red-eyed and tearful,\nhelped me cord my box. \"I daun knaw what we shall do without 'ee, my\ndear. Even the ol' biddy is sorrowful, though she's not enough of a\nChristian to fancy showin' it.\"\n\nThe last moment came. We had finished breakfast. I was dressed for the\njourney, and my brass-nailed box was ready in the hall. We awaited the\nsound of Lord Tawborough's carriage.\n\nAunt Jael epitomized.\n\n\"Well, child, you're at your eighteenth year and you're doing well in\nlife. I'm sure I don't grudge it 'ee. Your poor mother would have been\na proud woman to see you going off like this to a good post among fine\nfolk; but don't think as much of folk being fine and grand as she did,\npoor soul. All is vanity. Keep lowly. Don't let your head be turned\nbecause a fine lord is seeing you on your way to a life amid foreign\nlords and ladies: they're no better than humbler folk before the Lord\nand not often as good. Profit all you can. Never be ashamed of those\nwho brought you up. Maybe 'twill be three or four years before we see\nyou. A long time when we're old and within sight of the grave. Maybe\nyou'll never see us again.\"\n\n\"Oh no, Aunt Jael!\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said my Grandmother, \"'tis as likely as not true. Ye know\nnot the day nor the hour.\" (The door knocker sounded.) \"Come kiss me\ngood-bye and remember I shall tell her you're following after. Love the\nLord always.\"\n\n\nI hold in my mind the last vision of Bear Lawn: Aunt Jael and my\nGrandmother standing at the gate of Number Eight, Mrs. Cheese behind\nweeping in the doorway. I turned round in the carriage and waved my\nhand. I got a last glimpse of my Grandmother and Great-Aunt and saw\nthem turn round and begin to walk back along the garden path. I saw\nthem after they had ceased to see me. That was the real instant of\nparting.\n\nOn the long journey I said little to my companion; wrapped up in\nmyself and my own thoughts. Some of the way I slept. When we got to\nSouthampton docks, and my last Good-bye in England was but a few\nminutes ahead I remembered with the greater shame and vividness (that\nthroughout the long journey I had forgotten it) to whom it was I owed\nall the bright prospects before me, how needlessly good and generous\nhe had always been, and how utterly unworthy of his goodness and\ngenerosity I was.\n\n\"Sir,\" I said, and my voice was shaky, \"I don't know how to thank you\nfor all you have done for me. I've no money, no power, no anything.\nBut if there's anything I can make or send you to remember me by--if\nthere's anything at all I can do--Is there anything?\"\n\n\"Yes: Kiss me.\"\n\nHe spoke in a low voice. I trembled with sudden emotion and surprise.\nThen I kissed him on the cheeks, and he kissed me.\n\nThere were two old ladies standing near by; \"Brother and sister,\" we\noverheard one of them say.\n\n\"That's it, isn't it?\" I said.\n\nHe did not reply.\n\nThere was one more moment before I had to go on to the boat. I noticed\nwith a new interest--reviewing with staring inquisition every detail\nof his face--how good and clever and refined and aristocratic he was;\nhow more than all he seemed sad and hankering and lonely. I could not\nhelp apprehending after what had happened--but then, no, that was too\nabsurd. It was but a natural thing to have asked at a parting.\n\n\"Au revoir,\" he said in a last handshake, \"but not Adieu.\"\n\nIt was dusk as we sailed out of Southampton Water. England was a fading\npiece of purple sky, lying low upon the sea; sprinkled with stars, for\nthe harbour lights were showing. As she faded away I knew that she too\nbelonged to the past.\n\nI went to sleep in my bunk, and awoke in the bright sunshine of France\nand the future.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI: CHATEAU VILLEBECQ\n\n\nThere came into view a shining white mansion, massive, square-looking,\nthree-storied, pierced with high windows and covered like a mosaic with\nnewly-painted white Venetian shutters. A dream-house, gleaming against\na background of fresh greensward and dark yew-trees. \"It is not real,\"\nI said half-aloud, and mystery banished disappointment. For I had\npictured battlements, towers, drawbridges: had thought that \"ch\u00e2teau\"\nmeant \"castle.\"\n\nNothing that day had been quite real. Perhaps it was the hot spring\nweather. Or the over-wideawakeness that followed a sleepless night--ah,\nChannel steamboat, stirrings of body and soul, desperate illness\ncreating more desperate resolves to be good, prayers of \"Not _this_\ntime, God, and I'll be pure, holy!\" renewed with each sickening lurch.\nOr the inevitable first-day mystery of the foreign land.\n\nI had been met at Havre quay-side by a silent crafty little man in\nblack, with a face like Punch and a head (when with un-English gesture\nhe removed his hat) as smooth and bald as an egg.\n\n\"I am Fran\u00e7ois,\" was all he vouchsafed.\n\nI addressed him in French; he did not seem to understand, shook his\nhead vaguely and made no reply. A ridiculous fear seized me that I did\nnot know French at all, that Miss le Mesurier's lessons had been one\nmighty sham, false lessons in some goblin tongue.\n\nOr was I dreaming? All the way along the busy quay, amid clamouring\nporters, gesticulating cabmen, and marionette-like crowds, through\nunfamiliar streets, and in an unbelievable railway train, a sense of\ndreaming had persisted.\n\nThe carriage drew up in front of the great doorway. Fran\u00e7ois, by signs,\nexplained that he was entrusted with my luggage. A little woman came\nout on to the steps of the porch to greet me, smiling ingratiatingly.\nShe was a tiny, shrivelled thing, with bulgy eyes and a high receding\nforehead ridged with careworn lines, the whole dominated by an\nenormous nose: a human dormouse dressed in black. Despite its harassed\nair, the face was kind; her age might be fifty. The housekeeper, I\nsurmised. She shook hands effusively.\n\n\"Good day, Mademoiselle, so you are here.\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame.\"\n\n\"You are tired. Come upstairs. I will show you your room.\"\n\nMy relief at finding that the French I had learnt was real after all,\nwas less strong than a sudden feeling of fright--religious fright,\nfor God speaks only English--before the blasphemous oddness of the\nthing. After all, my conversations with Miss le Mesurier had only been\nfor conversation's sake: by way of learning the trick. But this real\ntalking, this conducting of life's actual business in the foreign\njargon!--(I prayed swiftly to know. \"Little fool,\" replied God, _in\nFrench_.)\n\nI followed the little old lady into a lofty hall, very cool after the\nheat outside, a cold and stately place. Doors opened out of it on every\nside, surmounted with antlers. On the walls I saw armour, old swords,\nbanners. We mounted a broad staircase with walls covered in tapestries.\nA mighty staircase. Majesty filled me.\n\n\"Here is your bedroom,\" said the little lady, \"and this door leads\nthrough to your study or boudoir, call it what you like. I hope you\nwill like them both.\"\n\n\"They are beautiful!\" I cried, and my heart beat faster as I surveyed\nthe bright bedchamber, the bed-hangings in rose-coloured chintz, the\nelegant boudoir with book-case and writing-desk and walls covered with\nportraits and miniatures and little racks for cups and vases--all for\nme. My heart exulted in contrasts. Oh, now I was a lady!\n\n\"You will want to wash your hands. I shall wait for you. I am so\nglad you have come. Your presence--that is your arrival--it gives\nme pleasure.... Now come downstairs to luncheon to be introduced to\nus all. They will be so delighted to see you, dear Mademoiselle, my\ndaughters--\"\n\n\"Then you are--\"\n\n\"Madame de Florian.\"\n\n\"The Countess! Oh a thousand pardons!\"\n\nWhat an un-Brethren-like phrase. And what a bad beginning.\n\nShe sniggered, was immensely tickled. \"Ha! Ha! You thought I was a\nservant.\"\n\n\"Oh no! Not really--\"\n\n\"Oh yes you did. And that does not surprise me. My daughters have\nalways told me I look like an old family servant: this will amuse\nthem so. Now come along to luncheon. One thing,\" she whispered\nconfidentially as she opened the bedroom door, \"before you begin with\nmy daughters we must have a little talk together about them both, and\nwhat each had best read with you. Ah, they are so different, Elise and\nSuzanne: one would not think them sisters. What anxiety it all gives\nme!\"\n\nAnd she knitted her brows and half closed her eyes in an expression of\nexaggerated care I thought more comical than sad.\n\nThe Countess led the way down the great staircase. In place of a door\nthe dining-room had high hanging curtains. We passed through them into\nby far the largest room I had ever seen. The floor was of polished\nwood; there were no rugs or carpets. In each distant corner was a\ncomplete suit of armour; all along the walls stood massive and stately\npieces of furniture. In the middle of this huge apartment, like an\nisland surrounded by an ocean of bare floor, was a table at which were\nseated four persons: two young ladies, a gentleman and a little old\nwoman.\n\nAll four stared at me with unconcealed interest. Introductions left me\nin a maze; I was too self-conscious to hear names, far too full of the\nfact that I was being introduced to them to concentrate on their being\nintroduced to me. Then for the next few minutes I was too busy trying\nto eat and drink aristocratically, acquiring slyly the new ritual of\nforks and spoons, posing modestly for five pairs of eyes, to hazard\nmy own stare-round. Of the conversation, which was conducted almost\nexclusively by the Countess and her younger daughter Suzanne, and which\nconcerned some peasant marriage in the district, I found after the\nfirst few moments that I understood almost everything. The food was as\ndelicious as it was unfamiliar. There was an omelette with rich little\ncrusts in it, and a venison-stew with olives.\n\nTowards the end of the meal I found courage to take the offensive and\nlook round. With pretence of unawareness that was pitiful to see, all\nimmediately arranged themselves to be gazed at: except the elder girl\nElise, who faced me with equal eye.\n\nAt the head of the table sat the Countess, full of asides to the\nbutler, and peering remorselessly at everybody's plate. When you took a\nportion of a dish she watched anxiously, to appraise quantity.\n\nOn her right, nearly opposite me, sat a tall dark gentleman. With his\npointed little beard, suave voice and exaggerated manners, I decided he\nwas a villain: a true French villain. I disliked him at once: his eyes\ntold me he knew it, and they reciprocated. His hard eyes (though dark\ninstead of blue), identical beard (though black instead of yellow),\ntreacly eyes and cat-like gesture, all reminded me of Uncle Simeon.\nI soon learnt that his name was de Fouquier; he was a cousin of the\nlate Count's and steward for the family estates. Like the Count, he\nhad played some part in the coup d'\u00e9tat which had placed the reigning\nEmperor on the throne. He spent most of the year at the Ch\u00e2teau, living\nas one of the family.\n\nNext to him, and immediately opposite me was my principal charge,\nMademoiselle Suzanne: a big healthy young woman, a few months\nyounger than myself, but a year or two older in appearance. She was\nfair-haired, big-featured and bright-eyed. A large mouth with full\nred lips proclaimed her sister to Maud--and daughter to Eve. She was\nlively, kind and perhaps stupid. She was always laughing.\n\nAt the end of the table, facing the Countess and immediately on my\nleft, sat Mademoiselle Elise, the elder daughter. She was unhealthily\npale; her eyes were fixed-looking, with dark rims underneath, as\nthough she hardly slept. The oddest feature was the forehead, high and\nof a marble whiteness that made the blue veins stand out. There was\nsomething cross and soured in her expression: also something miserable\nthat reminded me of myself--the first condition of sympathy.\n\nFinally, beside me, and on the Countess' left, sat a wizened little\nwoman, a tinier edition of the tiny Countess, but sallower, uglier and\nsharper-featured: ferret rather than dormouse. A pair of enormous blue\nspectacles enabled her to observe without being observed. She was the\nCountess' lady-companion. Her name, absurdly enough, was Mademoiselle\nGros.\n\nThe plainness and ordinariness of them all was what struck me most.\nI had pictured stately and distinguished persons--grand, noble,\nFrench--and here was a company quite as ugly and plebeian as the\nMeeting. No one fulfilled my notion of aristocrats! No one resembled\nthe Stranger.\n\nAfter luncheon, Mademoiselle Suzanne came up to my rooms to help me\nunpack. She prattled ceaselessly, in English, which she spoke well,\nthough I found reason to correct her every few moments and thus to\nbegin my duties.\n\n\"I shall like you, I know. I hated Miss Jayne: that's our governess\nwhen we were little: she was very ugly and severe. I teased her all\nI dared. Once I kicked her, but I was only nine. Mademoiselle Soyer,\nwho taught us last, was really French, though her mother was English,\nso she doesn't count. Our other governesses were all French; but\"\n(quickly) \"you are not a governess of course; you are to be a friend.\nI am sure you will like it with us: You can do whatever you want:\nride--you do ride?--go to picnics and excursions; there are very\npretty places near here. I am so glad you are not what I feared. Your\ncousin[!] Lord Tawborough told Mamma you were so clever. And some\nEnglish women, you know--you know what I mean. But we shall be friends,\nreal friends, I know it.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" thought I. \"You are friendly and kind, but not at all like\nthat unknown thing I hoped so hard to find, a real friend of my own\nage and sex, whom I could be free with, confide in--not love, for that\nthere is only Robbie--who could sometimes take the place of the Other\nMe in my talks and visions, who could end the loneliness.\"\n\nShe paused in her babyish fiddling with my possessions. \"What are you\nthinking about? You are not listening.\"\n\n\"Oh nothing,\" I said, a shade guiltily, for I was taken with one of my\nintuitive panics: Suppose she had guessed my thoughts? But the big eyes\nwere staring at me with nothing beyond vague curiosity. To make amends,\nI set to and tattled in the liveliest and worldliest fashion I knew.\n\n\"Oh how droll you are, and what good times we shall have together.\"\n\nDinner (no Supper now: I was a lady!) found me already much more at\nease. I corrected some mistake in Mlle. Suzanne's pronunciation, and\nthat set the table going. While Weather is the conversational shield\nand buckler of the English or of the French against themselves, against\neach other it is the oddness and madness of the other's tongue.\n\n\"Heavens!\" cried Suzanne. \"That makes five ways I know of to pronounce\n_ough_ in English. It is mad, absurd.\"\n\n\"There are seven ways at least,\" I boasted.\n\n\"There's nothing like that in our language. French is so simple.\"\n\n\"Oh? What about the irregular verbs?\"\n\n\"You've got them too, quite as many.\"\n\n\"But they're not so irregular as yours: in fact, most of them aren't\nreally irregular at all!\"\n\n\"Oh, not really irregular at all! _Am_, _be_, _is_, _are_: or _go_,\n_went_, _been_; aren't they irregular enough for you?\"\n\n\"And the spelling, oh dear!\" put in the Countess....\n\nThis sort of thing is as gay and unfailing as a fountain. Thanks to\nthe good oddities of my mother-tongue, on my very first evening in\nthis strange land I was beginning to feel at home. Certainly I talked\nmore than at any meal in the eighteen years before. Everywhere else I\nhad been a child, a chattel: a thing to be bullied and silenced (Aunt\nJael), tortured (Uncle Simeon), exhorted (the Saints), prayed for\n(Grandmother). The new unconstraint exhilarated me; my natural bent for\ntalking came into its own. Here I was listened to, expected to shine,\ndeferred to. I was clever: I was amusing: I was a lady!\n\n\nAlone in my cosy bedroom, with the lamp lit, I reviewed my first\nimpressions. How good it all was: comfort, ease, dainty food, fine\nsurroundings; kindliness, deference; freedom, importance. Luxurious\nliberty filled me: after eighteen years of prison I had escaped. But\nwould things continue as well as they had begun? Or were there new\nperils ahead? Then Conscience pricked. Is it right, this life of ease,\nthis new atmosphere of careless liberty: is it of the Lord? What place\nhas religion here? Where is God? Has any one of these fine folk spoken,\nor even thought, of holy things during one moment of this day? HAVE YOU?\n\nIt was late. I opened my Bible, and turned, involuntarily, inevitably,\nto the one hundred and thirty-seventh psalm. I read it through aloud.\nNone of the old emotion, none of the old misery returned; as I read I\ntried almost to force it back. Where had fled the wretchedness of that\nother first night of a new life, in the dreary chamber at Torribridge?\nWhere was the desperate luxurious loneliness of that time? Had the\nfatal atmosphere of France, the Papist Babylon, already in an hour\nmagically completed a change that the easier times of the past few\nyears had begun? Was I deprived of my oldest privilege, my misery? Had\nI become unworthy of unhappiness? I contrasted myself bitterly with\nthe unhappy Mary of seven years back. Ease was poisoning my soul. I\ndwelt with perverse envy on the wretched little girl of that other\nnight, and then fell to picturing all the unhappiness that had framed\nmy life, from the long agony of my mother before she bore me to the\ndaily oppression of the years that followed. Soon I was shedding\ntears of pity for my unhappy past self: weeping, if not for Zion.\n(More and more, as the contrasts of my new life developed, I indulged\nin this glad unhappiness of sentimental backward-looking, mimicked\nand dramatized the sincerity of my old child's misery, wallowed in\nretrospective self-pity, cried amid present ease: \"Ah, what a sad life\n_was_ mine!\") That I could weep for it as past showed me how wide and\nsudden was the gulf between the new life and the old. I resolved to\nwiden it.\n\nAlready a new person--an empty, a surface Mary, of whose existence\nwithin me I had sometimes had half-realized and swiftly-vanishing\nnotions--seemed to have sapped the fortress of my soul, to have assumed\ncommand of \"Me\": a person with the same brain, the same will, the same\nbody, but another soul, or no soul. My brain decided to stifle for a\nwhile the old Mary, to let this emptier, ease-fuller personality be all\nmyself. Then at the end of a space of time, I should know which was the\nstronger, which was the realler Me. I never doubted but that I should\nbe free to make my choice.\n\nI chose my Resolutions carefully, prayed them aloud, put them on paper,\nsealed them in time-honoured envelope:--\n\n\n    (1) I will cease all visions and daydreams.\n\n    (2) I will abandon all magic tricks, numbers and hopes.\n\n    (3) I will play with none of my Terrors: Hell, Satan, Eternity.\n\n    (4) I will not brood. I will fight my distrust of happiness, my\n    evil instinct that for every moment of pleasure the Lord will make\n    me pay to the uttermost farthing.\n\n    (5) I will seek none of the ecstasies of religion; not try to\n    experience the Rapture, nor dwell overmuch on holy things. Resting\n    from a too great pleasure in God, at the end of the period I am\n    setting myself I may find myself nearer to Him. (A wise experiment,\n    whispered a Voice: perhaps God's, perhaps the Devil's.)\n\n    (6) _Only_, I will read His Word daily, and have for every moment\n    the motto \"What would He do?\"\n\n    (7) Except at Christmas only, I will not think of Robbie. If at the\n    end of the time, he is as clear and close as ever, I shall know\n    myself and him better, just as with God (5).\n\n    ALL THESE THINGS, for the rest of this year 1866, eight months\n    and more [precisely thirty-seven weeks I noticed with a twinge of\n    emotion which was itself an involuntary breach of (2)], I do, with\n    God's help, here and now RESOLVE.\n\n    M. L.\n\n\nOn the envelope I wrote in capitals \"Very Private\" in English and\n\"Personnel\" in French, added \"April 17th, 1866\" and signed \"M. L.\"--the\ndeath-warrant of Mary I, proclamation from the throne of Mary II. And I\nundressed, and slept like a lady.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII: MARY THE SECOND\n\n\nThe Countess cornered me next morning for her \"little talk,\" conducting\nme to her own particular apartment. Mademoiselle Gros was present. She\nalways was, I soon found: a familiar spirit rather than a companion.\nShe sat on a low chair knitting, and if her eyes, or rather goggles,\nwere never raised, I could see that her ears were drinking everything\nin. The Countess, who spoke in a kind of loud whisper, seemed almost\noblivious of me, as one repeating her thoughts aloud to herself: I was\nmerely a good atmosphere in which to recite her woes.\n\nSuzanne, you know. A mere child, good-natured, impulsive--like her\nfather--not clever, but with a will of her own and at times a hot\ntemper--like her father. She gave no real trouble: yet caused her\nmother many anxieties: how, was not stated. Elise; ah that was a\ndifferent matter! She was intelligent, fond of study, with a practical\nhead for affairs and money. But so self-centred, so secretive; and so\nsharp-tongued, so undaughterly when reproved! And in her sullen way,\nfar more obstinate even than her sister. She could never be _made_ to\ndo anything: one had given up trying long ago....\n\n\"Ah Mademoiselle, if you but knew. It is not easy, to be an old woman\nalone in the world with two young daughters. They are all I have. I\nhope they will marry well, but rich husbands are not easy to find, when\nthe girls are poor. We are poor, you know.\"\n\n\"Poor, Madame?\" I cried, \"with this great ch\u00e2teau?\"\n\n\"_Because_ of this great ch\u00e2teau, Mademoiselle. You cannot know how\nexpensive it is to keep up. Expenses are always going up, and rents\nand farms are always going down. Things are not what they were. Elise\nwill succeed to this place, and to the little money we have. It is\nnot enough; the only thing is for her to find a husband rich enough\nto spend money on the estate. But she is so strange, so difficult;\nmocks at the idea of marrying; declares she hates all men--is it not\nhorrible? Says that if, by any impossible chance, she ever did marry,\nit would be just whom she fancies, rich as a king or poor as a rat.\nThere is no other girl in France like her. It is unbelievable. For\nSuzanne, too, a good marriage is important: but I fear the _dot_ I can\ngive her is not big enough to secure the sort of husband I want. You\nsee, Mademoiselle, what anxieties a mother has.\"\n\nSuddenly she woke up and seemed to become aware I was a conscious\nbeing. \"You are surprised I talk to you so freely? You are young, I\nknow, but so grave, so English, so wise; I feel you will influence my\nchildren for the good. You will help me, dear young Mademoiselle, will\nyou not? You will be my ally?\" (This word with a snigger, as though\ntrying to pretend she did not mean it.) \"And then English is such\na sensible thing to study, so useful an accomplishment in Society.\nPerhaps I will look through the books you read together--though I know\nyou would choose nothing unsuitable--if ever I get time. Oh dear! We\nare so glad you are here. Our first impression is delightful. Remember\nyou are not a governess but a friend.\"\n\n\"You are too kind, Madame. You are all very good to me. I always knew I\nshould like the French, I have always said so to myself.\"\n\n\"Now really? I cannot truthfully return the compliment--promise me you\nwill not take offence--though I have always liked individual English\npeople I have met. My family have always been fighting your countrymen.\nOh dear, I am always interrupted.\"\n\nThis was in response to a few suggestive throat-clearings from\nMademoiselle Gros. \"Time for you to go into Caudebec for the shopping,\nis it? Why, it is barely nine o'clock: don't worry me so, you have\nplenty of time. No, no\" (looking at her watch), \"It is gone half-past,\nyou must hurry off at once. Why couldn't you remind me sooner? Here is\nthe list--don't lose it--and here are fifty francs--No, you will need\nsixty. And don't go forgetting again to call at Lebrun's and pay him\nhis account. I will write about the other matter, so say nothing. No,\nyou had better just say--no, after all, say nothing. Here are the three\nhundred francs; three hundred francs--it is terrible.\"\n\n\"Now,\" as the dwarf-like creature slunk away, \"where was I, dear\nMademoiselle? Oh yes: my father was in the Navy, and fought with\nVilleneuve at Trafalgar, while my husband and his relatives were all\nin the Army; his father, the famous Count de Florian--the girls'\ngrandfather--was at Waterloo, serving as a general under the great\nEmperor himself. Trafalgar, Waterloo: what more would you have? But\nthen English is so useful, it is spoken everywhere: there is England\nwith all her colonies, and the Americans speak English too, don't\nthey? The Court Ladies all talk it, and our best families. So when the\ngirls were quite tiny, I got them an English governess, a Miss Jayne;\nsensible, but very harsh, and not _quite_ a lady. When they were older,\nI looked about for a young English lady to perfect them. Then our good\nEnglish friend, Lord Tawborough, told me of a young cousin of his, who\nwould suit perfectly. 'Protestant?' I asked him, for after all religion\nis important, is it not? 'Yes,' he replied, 'as you know nearly all of\nus are; and a devout one too. But of course she would never dream of\ntrying to influence your daughters!' You wouldn't, Mademoiselle, would\nyou?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! Madame,\" I replied, breaking a lifetime's vows.\n\n\"Naturally not. You are a good Protestant, we are good Catholics. But\nthere is tolerance, is there not?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" huskily. The new philosophy affected my voice.\n\n\"I knew you would think like that. The best way is for you never to\nrefer to religion at all, don't you agree?\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame,\" denying for the third time. And immediately in the ears\nof my spirits, the cock crew. I flushed. Madame stared, wondered, and\nsaid nothing.\n\nI sought to turn the subject. \"How did you first meet Lord Tawborough?\"\nI enquired. \"I should be much interested to hear.\"\n\n\"Has he never told you? Well, he was introduced to us by one of my\ndear husband's friends, another Englishman, a cousin of his; a much\nolder man, whom my husband knew through friends of the family in\nParis. So distinguished too, with a head of perfectly white hair, and\nso well-groomed; the perfect type of English gentleman. He lived in\nFrance. I think he didn't get on very well with Lord Tawborough, had\nquarrelled with the latter's father or something like that. The last\ntime I saw Lord Tawborough, he hadn't seen him for years; I think he\nstill lives somewhere or other in France. So distinguished, though\npious with it: a Protestant, of course, but a perfect gentleman.\"\n\n\"Which cousin, I wonder? Was he married?\"\n\n\"He had been, I believe, but his wife was dead. She had treated him\nshamefully, I heard, and finally ran away. I never quite found out, you\nknow; these things are sometimes hard to discover, aren't they? One\nday we may meet again; like all my dear husband's friends, he has a\nstanding invitation to the Ch\u00e2teau. Poor Monsieur Traies, I wonder what\nhas become of him.\"\n\nI could not hide my extreme emotion, and for a second my brain was too\nnumb to invent a pretext.\n\n\"Oh Madame,\" I cried faintly, \"I feel ill all of a sudden,\" and I\nrushed from the room, and upstairs to my bedroom.\n\n_He_ was in France. I might meet him in this very house. It was not the\ncoincidence which affected me, but the suddenness with which an old\nvision had become a near possibility. Nature and habit were stronger\nthan last night's Resolution, and pacing about my room I rehearsed in\nhectic detail all the mad alternative ways in which the meeting would\ntake place, the long-planned d\u00e9nouement be achieved.\n\nBy luncheon I had calmed down and could pass the sudden sickness off as\na turn I often had when tired.\n\n\"Fatigues of the journey,\" sympathized the Countess.\n\nNext day I began my duties. The program was an hour or two's\nConversation with Suzanne, followed by Reading with Elise. From the\nfirst day the former was nothing more (or less) than a chat, sometimes\nslanderous, mostly frivolous, always friendly: developing my golden\ntalent for tattle, and in the idlest and surest fashion perfecting\nSuzanne's English. We became the best of companions.\n\nElise began by giving me a fright. \"I love your poets,\" she said in her\nprecise plaintive English, \"Shakespeare best of all, though\" (proudly)\n\"very few French people do. We will read his plays together. I have\nread most of them, but you will know them far better. I should like to\nbegin with either Macbeth or Othello, my two favourites. Which do you\nadvise?\"\n\nI had never heard of either.\n\n\"You see me colouring,\" I laughed nervously. \"You have guessed: I am a\nbit ashamed of not knowing my Shakespeare as well as I can see you do.\"\n\nThe half-lie saved me. It most intimately flattered her vanity: that\nshe, the French girl, should be thought to know an English poet better\nthan I. No variety of self-content is more delicious than that which\nfills a foreigner when she can soar over the natives in knowledge of\ntheir own land.\n\n\"You are too modest,\" said Elise. \"Now which of those two plays shall\nwe begin with?\"\n\nI had clean forgotten one title, and was not sure of repeating the\nother correctly. \"Which do _you_ think? It is you who should choose,\" I\nreturned generously. At all costs she must repeat one of the names.\n\n\"Macbeth then. I think it is the finer.\"\n\n\"Yes, Macbaith,\" I agreed, imitating her pronunciation as closely as\nI could. \"Perhaps you would lend me your copy. Reading it through\nwould\"--I recoiled from \"refresh my memory\"--\"would be useful. I'll\nread it over tonight. The Countess won't mind my reading in my room?\"\n\n\"Your room is yours to do what you like in. We all do what we like\nhere; I hope you'll do the same.\"\n\nSo that night the bedroom of a French Ch\u00e2teau saw me make the\nacquaintance of the greatest of my fellow-countrymen, of multitudinous\nseas and perfumes of Araby, and of a theme new in print only: a woman's\nvaulting ambition.\n\nReading, in fact, by myself or with Elise, became my chief distraction.\nElise's sour face held no sour looks for me. I would watch the high\nblue-veined forehead and the sad white face as we were reading\ntogether. For the first time--with the one exception of Lord\nTawborough, in whom also intelligence and purity, in their manlier\nsetting, were the qualities that attracted me--I found myself admiring\nsome one, acknowledging frankly to myself that here was something\nbetter than I. Her kindness, her sadness, her literary enthusiasm all\nheightened the effect; and in the ardour of books and discussion sprang\nup my first real friendship. It ripened slowly, for she was as proud as\nI. We did not wallow in confidences, knowing that at the right moment\nthey could come.\n\nMy private reading was voracious, sharpened by years of unconscious\nhunger. I read novels, poetry and travel, chiefly in French: one\nsubject became an enthusiasm, the history of France, and one part of\nthat subject a mania.\n\nOf the glory of this world I knew nothing. It burst on me now in one\nvision, one shape, one glad triumphant name: the name and shape and\nvision of France. I devoured every map, every picture, every book of\ngeography or history the library contained. I learnt to know the living\nsoul and lilting name of each river and city and province, from this\nNormandy of Ch\u00e2teaux and cider-orchards and Vikings and churches to\nProvence loved of the sun and limned by the Midland Sea; from fervid\nGascony to brave Lorraine. I loved the victorious shape: that stands\nfirm on the straight Pyrenees, turns a proud Breton shoulder to the\nwide Atlantic, and bears on the breast of old Alsace the swing and\nswerve of the whole eastward Continent. Best of all I loved the story:\nGauls and Romans, Troubadours and Crusaders, Kings and Dauphins,\nHuguenots and Leaguers, lilies and eagles, laughter and war. I see them\nalways as from some hilltop, a tented and bannered multitude spread on\na vast twilight plain beneath me, reaching to the utmost horizon of\nhistory.\n\nAbove them all, in the highest heaven, there shines a Star. It is\nNapoleon.\n\nI lived every moment from the island-birth to the island death, from\nAjaccio to the Rock; knew the emotion of each time so well that\nI believed I could have been Napoleon, came to feel _I had been_\nNapoleon, and could revel in retrospective megalomania with no betrayal\nof Resolution: for I was weaving no futures for myself, but living\nanother's past. Another's, yet mine. For as I read I found that I\n_remembered_ the lonely childhood, the sour school-days; the hopes of\n'96, the springtide of Italy; the summertide of glory; Austerlitz,\nNotre Dame, the crown of battles and the crown of gold; with God's\nrevenge for good days gone:--the wintertime of Russia; the defeat, the\ndisaster, the desertion; the giant self-pity of Longwood. Ah, those\nwere great days. And now I was Mary.\n\nFor a long time I thought the Nephew ridiculous. The pictures I saw\neverywhere portrayed a kind of sleepy Uncle Simeon, bloated, heavier,\nstupider, but not less crafty. But I kept my thoughts to myself. For\nthe family were staunch adherents of the reigning Emperor.\n\nThen, one day, Elise gave me a book describing his younger days. Again\nI found that I remembered. I was Louis-Napoleon too. _He_ was the great\nNapoleon. We were all one. In the world there was only one Person.\nEvery one was every one else. My heart--God--once more I had nearly\nreached the Mystery....\n\nHe was a real Napoleon, this living King, who, when as a little child\nthey tore him away from the Tuileries (when the uncle fell and was\nabandoned), cried out aloud in rage prophetic: \"I shall come back,\" and\nthrough madness and mockery and passion and prison--came back.\n\nIf books were my most personal pleasure, I settled down to enjoy every\nphase of the new easeful life: fine bedroom and boudoir (I would exult\naloud that they were mine); perfect servants who spared you cleaning\nyour own boots, making your bed and folding your clothes; bright days\nin the park with Suzanne and her chatter; rides, drives, picnics;\nexcursions to Jumi\u00e8ges, to Caudebec, to neighbouring mansions, to old\nRouen, jewelled with wonderful papist churches. A \"No English after\ndinner\" rule of the Countess' enabled me to improve my French almost to\nperfection, and this acquisition of another tongue contributed to the\nchange in my character: words make thoughts rather than thoughts words:\nlanguage is the lord of life. Soon this new insouciant way of treating\nlife, which but a few weeks earlier would have been incomprehensible,\nappeared the natural one. I forgot love, and God, and misery. Mary\nII had won. Bear Lawn became distant and half-real. A thin bridge of\nmemory, which Resolution forbade me to traverse, spanned the widening\ngulf between the two lives. The very intenseness of the old days was\nthe reason they so soon became unreal. I had learnt to live each\ninstant in over-intense and concentrated fashion: I could not do it in\nthe present and past as well.\n\nNone of my minor fears were realized. I had thought my humble\nupbringing might make itself seen; but no, to all and sundry I was\nannounced as \"the cousin of a Lord\" (lusciously pronounced _laurrr_ by\nthe Countess) and taken for granted as a young English gentlewoman of\northodox antecedents. I justified my pleasure by the reflection that it\nwas all literally true, though in my heart I knew that the _true_ Me\nwas poor middle-class go-to-Meeting Mary. All my ways were found \"so\nEnglish, so quaint, so Puritan, so clever, so charming.\" Well-chosen\nhints of the oddness and rigour of Bear Lawn excited interest,\namusement, pity, each in their turn delectable: how it pleased,\nflattered, touched me! The Clinkers and Aunt Jael became victims in a\nrepertoire, butchered to make a Norman holiday. Nor need I have feared\nfor my table-manners with these French aristocrats who wiped their\nplates with their bread and supped and squelched and chewed in almost\nGlorian fashion; while Aunt Jael in hawkiest mood never rivalled the\nmesmeric stare which Madame la Comtesse de Florian bestowed on other\npeople's plates.\n\n\nThe eternal visualizing was the one habit of old days which I could not\ncompletely shake off. My Napoleonizing was one outlet; for the rest,\nthe intrigues and excitements that the next few months were to furnish\nbrusquely stemmed the tide. Stage-manager of a real drama, I had less\nneed to act imaginary ones.\n\nI had soon divined, beneath the lightness, an odd constraint around\nme. At table there were unpleasant silences, when I could feel that my\ncompanions were hostile to each other. I noticed that the Countess,\nElise and Suzanne only spoke to me on intimate or serious topics when\nwe were alone. Every talk worth remembering had been _\u00e0 deux_; they\nwere not, I thought, ashamed of me but of themselves, not shy of me\nbut of each other. Of love as I, who had not known it, felt it should\nbe between mother and daughter and sister and sister, the great house\nheld little. Elise alone, I was beginning to discover, had a jealous\nand passionate regard for her sister, inadequately returned. The\nCountess' feeling for her daughters, worldly solicitude or whatever\nit was, contained I believe no particle of real love; she mistrusted\nthem, feared them, and avoided close contact with them, especially\nwith Elise. In return Suzanne ignored while Elise almost despised\nthe mother. Monsieur de Fouquier's position puzzled me. He seemed\nto be valued as a steward, honoured as a relation, and disliked as\na man. Elise mistrusted him. The Countess was frightened of him.\nSuzanne--I did not know. He was excessively polite to me, but spoke\nlittle. At table Ferret-Blue-goggles was silence itself, though alone\nwith the Countess I think she had a good deal to say. All the family\nshowed me uniform kindness, genuine and spontaneous, though after\na time I detected method in it too. I felt that each one of them\nseparately--Elise over books, Suzanne during our walks and talks, the\nCountess in her \"as one woman to another\" confidences--was bidding for\nthe chief place in my affections; seeking me, as the Countess had put\nit, as an ally.\n\nI was a valuable piece on the Villebecq chessboard. A hand was\nstretched forth, and played the opening move.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII: LAYING-ON OF HANDS\n\n\nWe were sitting at luncheon one day about the end of the summer.\n\nSuddenly the Countess arose from her seat, erect, pale with fury,\npointing at Suzanne.\n\n\"Leave the table, wretched vicious girl! Go to your room! And you,\nSir\"--to Monsieur de Fouquier--\"will leave my house without delay.\"\n\nThere was a moment's intense silence. No one moved. All stared.\n\n\"Madame--\" began de Fouquier suavely.\n\n\"Not a syllable! It is not required. Business can be wound up in a few\nhours; and I do not doubt I shall find a successor who will serve me\n_not less well_ than you. Gentlemanly conduct indeed!--handling and\nembracing my daughter--\"\n\n\"Mother\"--it was Elise who spoke--\"are you _quite_ demented?\" For one\nwho was not a principal she was inexplicably white and hard.\n\n\"Quite, I think,\" rejoined her sister, not at all as though the chief\nperson concerned, but relieved to have a word to echo.\n\n\"Wretched girl. You dare deny--?\" Here Mademoiselle Gros nudged and\nwhispered. The Countess walked swiftly round the table to her daughter,\nand snatched at her left arm. \"Deny now, will you? Ha! Ha! Look at your\nwrists; deny if you can.\"\n\nWe all stared. The white finger-pressure of another hand was\nunmistakable.\n\n\"Deny?\" cried Suzanne scornfully, \"of course I do. He holding my hand\nunder the table! What an idiotic idea, just the sort of idea you would\nhave. Dear me, how horrible if he had! That's what your filthy little\nspy thinks she saw through her filthy smoked glasses. The liar!\"\n\n\"Those marks, then, Mademoiselle, if you please\"--her mother sneered\nconfidently--\"Be so very kind as to explain.\"\n\n\"Those marks, then, Madame, if you please! I suppose you're not my\nmother, Madame, if you please, and know nothing of the little habit\nI've always had of sitting with my hands in my lap, with my left wrist\nclasped in my right hand, my own amorous right hand? I had finished my\ndessert, and--yes, I admit it--was sitting in that wicked position. And\nI will again. And, what is more, I won't have you and your accusations.\nI'm not a baby in long clothes, and I won't be spied on and shrieked at\nin that mad way. And I'll squeeze my wrist till it bleeds if I choose\nto.\"\n\nToo confident, too explanatory. Lying was not in her line. But de\nFouquier preserved an unruffled silence. I was not sure. The Countess\ntoo was wavering.\n\nFerret whispered again. \"Not true.\" We all heard.\n\n\"Listen, Madame,\" said Elise, very hard and pale, \"there is one person\nwho will leave this house without delay: that little spy. Order her to\ngo at once: _Now!_\", savagely.\n\n\"I won't,\" piped the Countess, \"I am mistress in my own house.\"\n\n\"Then I will,\" and turning to Mademoiselle Gros, \"You have just two\nminutes to leave this table of your own free will, and till tomorrow to\nrelieve the Ch\u00e2teau of your presence. If not, I'll drag you from the\nroom myself, or ring for the servants to help me.\" They all cowered\n(except de Fouquier) before Elise.\n\n\"Yes, go I will, my poor Countess,\" squeaked the creature, trying to\nmake valour appear the better part of discretion. \"I can hear your\ndaughters' insults no longer.\" Out she skedaddled, tap-tap-tapping\nacross the wooden floor in the midst of a momentous silence.\n\nThen Elise turned sharply to her mother. \"All you have to do is to\napologize humbly to Suzanne and Emile. The whole thing is a mare's\nnest. Have you ever seen anything before to make you suspect anything\nof the sort? No, and you know you have not. It is utterly unlike my\nsister. As to Emile, I know him a good deal better than you do--\"\n\n\"Evidently\"; sneering feebly.\n\n\"There's a stupid muddle-headed sneer. You can't have it both ways. If\nit is me you suspect of love-making with our cousin, say so openly and\nwithdraw it about Suzanne. Is it proofs you want? Oh, I can produce\nauthentic marks of loving pressure soon enough.\" She clutched savagely\nat her own wrist, scratching it with her nails. \"There, mother, dear,\nthere is a spot of blood: now you are convinced. I admit all, all.\nYou may shriek 'Wretched, vicious girl' at me till your voice fails\nyou. But one thing you may not, shall not, do. You shall not talk to\nmy sister like that, not if you were my mother ten times over. That\nis an order. And for a piece of advice only, don't talk quite so\npreposterously to Emile.\"\n\n\"You are grown very fond of our cousin all of a sudden; with your\n'Emile' this and your 'Emile' that. It is rather sudden.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, my dear mamma: it has been a very gradual affair on the\ncontrary: a passion that has been eating my heart out month by month,\nday by day, hour by hour. Oh Love, Love. I live in it, it is my joy,\nmy life! Oh God, it is cruel!\" With a laugh (or sob) she ran from the\ntable, and hurriedly left the room.\n\n\nFour of us were left. There was a new unpleasant pause. No sign or look\npassed between Suzanne and de Fouquier. I was moved by the display of\nraging hate in this peaceful family, and bewildered to know what it\nmight all mean. The Countess was sniffing tearfully, mopping her eyes\nwith a tiny cambric handkerchief.\n\n\"No need for that,\" cried Suzanne sharply. \"You have not yet apologized\nto Emile.\"\n\nHe broke his discreet silence at last, suavely, full of forgiveness.\n\"No, my dear cousin, pray do not talk to your mother like that. 'Tis\nI who am sorry. It is not Madame's own fault; I have always felt that\nMademoiselle Gros was putting false ideas into her mind, poisoning her\noutlook, playing treacherously on her maternal fears, slandering each\none of us. Now she is going, and we shall breathe a purer atmosphere.\"\n\nMadame continued to sniffle.\n\n\"Don't-know-what-to-believe.\"\n\nNeither Suzanne nor Monsieur de Fouquier gave her any enlightenment,\nthough she looked furtively up first at one and then the other. Then\nwith an appealing \"Help me\" glance she turned in my direction. So,\ninstantly, did the others. \"Remember, dear Mademoiselle, that we're\nfriends,\" was the burden of one look: \"Beware, young lady, or we'll be\nenemies\" of the other.\n\n\"I think it must all be an unfortunate misunderstanding, Madame,\" I\nsaid. \"Personally, I noticed nothing.\" (Judicial, judicious.)\n\nHere Fran\u00e7ois entered; bald-headed, Punch-faced, beaky-eyed. He\nlooked completely incognizant of the storm that had been raging:\nexactly as though he had been listening outside the whole time. The\nunited-front-before-servants which we hastened to display would have\nfailed to deceive the dullard which Fran\u00e7ois certainly was not.\n\nBoth Suzanne and her mother began eye-signalling \"See you after\" to me,\nthe more emphatically when each perceived the other. Suzanne first, I\ndecided: she was my friend, and with her I should get nearer the truth\nof it all. But as we rose from the table, the Countess laid her hand\naffectionately on my shoulder, and led me, unavoidably, to her boudoir.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX: HAPPY FAMILY\n\n\nHere we found Mademoiselle Gros, already bonneted and shawled. I went\nover to the window, where my ears drank in a little comedy of pathetic\nexplanation and injured silence; humiliating apology and continued\nsilence, generous proposal of one month's salary, hinted acceptance of\nthree. From the three months' minimum Ferret would not budge; in the\nCountess' soul fear of a new scene fought an attacking battle against\nlong-entrenched parsimony; fear won--and money passed.\n\n\"I will see you have the carriage for the station. The Havre train: you\nare returning to your relatives there? Good, I will see you again at\nthe moment of departure.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Madame la Comtesse. I will take leave now of my\n_successor_.\" And she held out her wizened claw to me.\n\n\"Well, I hope she will be,\" said the Countess. \"You will, dear\nMademoiselle, will you not?\" she asked, as the door closed upon the\nother.\n\n\"How, Madame? Mademoiselle Gros' successor?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mean as lady's companion, of course, not as her _official_\nsuccessor.\" (Nervous snigger.) \"For that post I must try to find some\none else. It will be difficult: they are all so exacting nowadays, so\nunreliable. Oh, it will be difficult. I meant, would you succeed poor\nlittle Gros as my friendly adviser, my confidante?\"\n\n\"But, Madame, I am so young. A young foreign girl, who knows very\nlittle of the world! I hope always to be your friend; but a confidante,\nlike Mademoiselle Gros--I don't think I should like to--\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, there are many things _I_ do not like, also. Do you\nthink that I like to be spoken to by my own children as I was in front\nof 'a young foreign girl' this morning? I come of an ancient family:\nthere is still pride in France. The new generation of young girls\nis terrible. I would never have dared to speak to my dear mother as\nSuzanne and Elise do to theirs; I would have died first--\"\n\n\"Madame,\" I interrupted, \"do you love your daughters?\"\n\n\"Love them? of course I do! _At the same time_--\" She shrugged her\nshoulders and resumed her plaint.\n\n\"Ah, it is hard; I fly from trouble, and it comes always my way. I need\npeace, and there is always strife. I am so unhappy, so worried, so\nalone; I trust no one, I believe nothing they tell me. If our relatives\nwere to hear of this! But they shall not; not for worlds would I\nconfide in them. But one must confide in somebody, mustn't one? You,\nMademoiselle, you have seen now the kind of thing I have to bear--I\nam only surprised that you have been so long here without seeing an\nexhibition like today's. You know now how my daughters treat their\nmother--\"\n\n\"Madame,\" I interposed, \"I know nothing. The whole scene at luncheon\nleaves me bewildered. What did happen?\"\n\n\"Something, I'm sure. Gros must have seen something: not that at bottom\nshe was reliable, but she could not have invented the whole thing\nlike that, could she? And I was beginning to have a kind of suspicion\nmyself, too. But when Suzanne explained, it _seemed_ true, didn't it?\nShe was never a child for falsehoods. And then I remembered how Gros\nhated Monsieur de Fouquier--\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Oh, she always hated him ever since she's been here. She was always\ntrying to poison my mind against him: as if she needed to! And as if\na poor creature like that was able to influence me. She hated him so\nbecause he wanted me to part with her, and she knew it. He was always\nhoping she would leave.\"\n\n\"Why?\" again.\n\n\"Because she was always talking against him to me: a vicious circle is\nit not? So perhaps what Gros said today was merely out of spite against\nhim. Still, the very idea is terrible.\"\n\n\"Why--if I may--if you will forgive my asking--why is the idea of\nMademoiselle Suzanne and Monsieur de Fouquier so terrible?\"\n\n\"I will tell you in a moment. But Elise's manner? What did that mean?\nShe frightened me; she was so hard and bitter. I do not understand. Ah,\nthat would be infinitely worse: the idea of him and Elise. Fouquier\none day master of this ch\u00e2teau, ruler in my house,--ah no, no, there\nare limits to what I could endure. Yet there is something with one of\nthe two: I feel there is something. But which?\"\n\n\"Why either, Madame? If Mademoiselle Gros' story about Suzanne is all a\nlie--\"\n\n\"It might be a lie. It never does to be too hopeful; I am always\nnursing false hopes.\"\n\n\"Well, assume it's a lie, which after what you have told me about\nMademoiselle Gros' spite sounds likely; well, that disposes of Suzanne;\nwhile as to Elise, except for her wild talk, which means nothing except\nthat she was angry, have you the tiniest reason for suspecting anything\nof her?\"\n\n\"How comforting to hear you talk so! Somehow I feel there may be\nnothing in it after all. But if there were, how terrible!\"\n\n\"Why, Madame?\"\n\n\"Ah, you don't know. It is de Fouquier.\"\n\n\"He is a cousin--\"\n\n\"Only a second cousin.\"\n\n\"Because he is poor?\"\n\n\"There is that, of course: but listen, I will tell you all.\"\n\nShe looked nervously towards the door, and dropped her voice to a\nmelodramatic whisper. \"Listen, Mademoiselle: he is an enemy. There are\nother bad points, of course: for instance, he is vicious; you are an\nEnglish girl and understand what I mean. That is not important; all men\nare more or less like that. Then he is a thief and a cheat. Since my\ndear husband died, he has managed all my business affairs; all about\nthe estates, you know. He has what we call a power-of-attorney, signs\nall documents to do with the property, collects all rents and dues,\nsees to the leases and the farms and all investments and improvements.\nWell, he is a robber. He takes commissions and bribes from the tenants\nand dealers; when he invests in the funds he makes a profit for\nhimself; he falsifies all the documents he puts before me. Do you want\nevidence, proof? The tenants all come to me on the sly and tell me of\nhis tricks. It was long before I discovered, and still longer before I\ntook my courage in both hands and braved him with his treachery. Oh, I\nwas prostrate with fear, but I worked myself into a temper and that\nhelped me, and I told him in one word--Go!\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"Then the worst thing happened, the thing that had always held me back.\nHe said that if I forced him to leave the ch\u00e2teau, he would publish\nabroad things he knew about my husband, would hold up the family name\nto ignominy and scorn, would prove to all the world that my husband\npossessed neither honesty nor honour. It was all false, or nearly all;\nbut I was frightened lest he did know something really dishonourable.\nAnyway, I knew he would pretend he did, and so carry out his threat.\nFinally I gave in, though he saw the hate in my eyes, he saw that! So\nhe stayed on. He goes more carefully, that is, he contents himself with\nstealing less. It is only because of this hold over me, through my\naffection for my dear husband's memory, that he stays. I hate him, and\nhe hates me.\"\n\n\"Will he always stay?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" she replied vaguely, \"that's just it. I hope he will die. It is\nwicked of me, and I trust that the good God will pardon me. However,\nnow you understand.\"\n\n\"I am beginning to understand. One thing, though. Surely, Madame, if he\n_were_ to marry in the family, then he could have no reason to injure\nthe family name--\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, for a man who has so spoken to enter our family would be\nthe foulest dishonour.\" She drew herself up proudly; there was a touch\nof real majesty in her poor heroics. Then, subsiding into the customary\nworried-dormouse manner, puckering her brows, and poking forward her\nanxious nose: \"If there is any danger, it must be stopped now--Oh,\nwhat a nightmare! We could easily manage Suzanne, but Elise would be\nterrible. We must find out for certain. Neither of them would tell me\nanything: I am only their mother! But you, that is different. They will\ntalk freely to you about today, I feel sure they will, Suzanne for\ncertain. You will tell me what they say?\"\n\n\"Oh Madame, it would be unkind to make me promise that. I could not\nbreak their confidences any more than I could yours, could I?\" (Much\nless so, I realized, as I liked the girls better; knowing that in the\nlast resort I should be guided by preference rather than reason or even\ninterest.)\n\n\"Then you'll not help me! You will leave me alone after all? Without\nhusband, or friend, or companion, untrusted by my children\" (whimper),\n\"alone, alone? In the short time since you have come I have tried\nto make you happy in your life with us, and you will not do me this\nleast service? Why even poor Gros, whom I never really liked, told me\nall--all she could see.\"\n\nThe last phrase turned me from pity to pertness. \"Madame,\" I said, \"I\nam not Mademoiselle Gros. I am a friend, not a spy.\"\n\n\"Spy,\" she repeated, a cold glint in her eyes; and I shrank away from\nher, not so much through fear of her anger as through shame at my own\ncruelty.\n\n\"No, no, Madame,\" I cried, \"I did not really mean that. I only meant\nthat I am so much friendlier with the girls than Mademoiselle Gros was,\nthat it will be harder for me to be fair to them as well as to you. But\nI sympathize truly with all your troubles and anxieties. I do really,\ndear Madame, I do not say it to be polite--and I will always try to\nhelp you, I will help you however I can, I want to repay your many\nkindnesses.\"\n\n\"Ah, thank you, thank you,\" and she squeezed my hand affectionately,\nwith tears in her eyes. \"Now I must see Mademoiselle Gros off.\"\n\nI followed her out, and went upstairs to my bedroom.\n\n\nSuzanne was ensconced in my window-seat.\n\n\"So you've escaped at last. I ask pardon for installing myself here,\nbut I knew it was the only place where I should have you to myself.\nWhat has the old dear been saying?\"\n\n\"A good many things.\"\n\n\"I know. Begging you to be 'on my side, dear Mademoiselle.' Oh, don't\nworry, I've not been listening at the door; I've always left that to\nGros, who never got anything but earache for her pains. I know it all\nby heart, though. In brief, she wound up by asking you precisely what\nI am here to ask you myself: in this delightful family circle of the\naristocracy of France, will you be on _my_ side? You hesitate: did you\nhesitate when she asked you?\"\n\n\"No, I said 'No' straight out. I said it wouldn't be fair to you two\nfor me to promise that.\"\n\n\"Well, you haven't said 'No' straight out to me. Which means you like\nme better.\"\n\n\"You know it. But everybody has been so kind, I would rather not take a\nside at all.\"\n\n\"You'll have to, my poor Mademoiselle! You have seen too much. You have\nalready become more like one of the family in your few months here than\nany outsider before. And you are too good a friend not to be worth\ntrying for.\"\n\n\"Too useful an ally.\"\n\n\"I mean that. Don't be cynical. Because I like you--and I do\nenormously--it is not wrong for me to want you to help me, is it?\nSuppose there were a bad quarrel between Mamma and me, and you became\nmixed up in it, so that you had to choose to side with one or the other\nof us, which would it be?\"\n\n\"I don't think anything like that would arise, and I don't see what I\ncould _do_ anyway; but my sympathies would be with you.\"\n\n\"Thank you, I am so happy. I didn't want to make you promise. You would\nhelp me, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. On one condition, that you told me everything.\"\n\n\"I promise that. But just for fun, I'd like you to tell me beforehand\nwhat you have already guessed on your own: what, for instance, you\nthought of the pleasant little incidents at luncheon today. Just for\nfun.\"\n\n\"I might say something that would offend you.\"\n\n\"Say whatever you think, I shall like it better.\"\n\n\"It was the suddenness of what happened that took my breath away; I\nhadn't time to ask myself what I thought. Then Mademoiselle Gros seemed\nso natural that I thought she must be telling the truth: I'm sorry, but\nit was difficult to think otherwise, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Go on.\"\n\n\"Then you denied it; but even if true I could not understand why your\nmother was so tragical. Then, when Elise became so wild and strange, I\nhad a new doubt--that perhaps it was Elise, and not you, who was fond\nof Monsieur de Fouquier--\"\n\nSuzanne interrupted with a shriek of laughter: \"Oh, no, no, no! that is\na bit too good.\"\n\n\"Why was she so strange in the way she spoke about him, then?\", piqued.\n\n\"Oh, that is just like her. I forgot of course that before today you\nhave never seen her as she really is. Why did she speak so wildly?\nSimply and solely to shield and protect me; to muddle old Mother, and\nto turn her suspicions and anger away from me. She cannot bear to see\nMamma rave at me; it gives her pain, physical pain. It is the way she\nloves me. I am not worthy of her, sometimes I wish I was. I let her\nkiss me and sacrifice herself for me; but I can't give her what she\nwants; I like her, of course, but only as an ordinary sister does. What\nhappened today was a sham to save me.\"\n\n\"I am glad. Now I know how much she loves you, there can never be any\ndanger of my going against her because of my promise just now to you.\nThat is the reason I hesitated--\"\n\n\"I see. There are gradations. You like Mamma, but would throw her over\nfor me, whom you like better. You like me, but at a pinch would throw\nme over for Elise.\"\n\n\"It is not like that.\" (It was.) \"Anyway, I've done what you asked and\ntold you what I thought. Now you tell me. Before I can help you, the\nfirst thing I have to know is,--well, the chief thing. Did you--was\nwhat Mademoiselle Gros said true?\"\n\n\"Perfectly. Poor dear Mamma! It is the hundredth time Emile has held my\nhand at table, though the first time we were caught. We embrace each\nother whenever we have the opportunity; in his office downstairs, in\nthe grounds, anywhere. Listen. He loves me. I love him. That is all\nthat matters. Ah, he is so smart, so _chic_, so courteous, so perfect\na lover! He adores me, worships me, would do anything to please me.\nPerhaps I don't love him quite as much as he does me, though that\nwill come: oh, soon, soon! He buys me presents, beautiful bracelets\nand things. I cannot wear them, though, because of Mamma. Oh, but I\nlove him. The joy of meeting alone in the park, being near together,\nembracing, hearing his declarations, loving each other. Oh love! There\nis only love! Ah, I see you understand--\"\n\nI flushed, chiefly in anger: that she should dare, even unwittingly, to\nput de Fouquier in the same place as Robbie.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked sharply, \"there is something.\" (\"O Lord,\" I\nprayed, \"send me a lie to tell her, send swiftly!\") To gain time:\n\"Unless you promise, solemnly, not to be offended. I cannot tell you.\"\n\n\"I promise.\"\n\n(God gracious; lie to hand.) \"Well, if what I am going to say is not\nnice--in comparison--for your friend, it is because it is especially\nnice for you. I like you very very much, but I don't think Monsieur de\nFouquier is worthy of you.\"\n\n\"Why?\" with a touch of curtness which in loyalty to her promise she\nstrove to hide.\n\n\"It is hard to give the reason--\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, very hard! Because Mother made you promise not to. She\nhas told you Emile is a thief and a cheat because rents are going down\nowing to bad times, accused him of muddling accounts which she doesn't\nvaguely comprehend, not any more than I should. She's been repeating to\nyou all the lies told her by dealers and farmers he doesn't buy carts\nand ploughs and stock from, who say he has been bribed by those he does\nbuy them from. I know all the stories. How dare she poison your mind\nwith lying slanders!\"\n\n\"My reason for thinking him unworthy of you is something quite\ndifferent. Is he a _good_ man?\"\n\nShe looked puzzled. Then she gave a vague little laugh. \"As good as any\none else, I suppose. What do you mean by 'good?'\"\n\n\"Clean-living. Is he a pure man?\"\n\nNow she laughed uproariously: her voice jarred on me. \"Is he a\npure man? My dear Mademoiselle, of course he's not. That's a\nwhat-d'ye-call-it, a contradiction in terms, like saying a white\nnigger. Emile is like the others: keeps mistresses, goes to actress'\ndressing-rooms, sees cocottes.\"\n\n\"Sees them?\" I repeated the silly euphemism mechanically.\n\n\"Sleeps with them, possesses them then, if you prefer. Why look so\nwretched about it? It doesn't worry me. It is the world.\" Her candid\npleasure in shocking me, and the more refined delight of superior\nworldly-wisdom both failed to annoy me as they should have done: I\ncould only think of the nightmare foulness itself.\n\n\"You say--it doesn't worry you? You can love a man like that?\"\n\n\"Naturally. Better than any other kind, if there were another kind. The\nmore women he has loved, the greater is the compliment in choosing me.\nIf a man is a better schoolmaster the more experience he has had and\nthe more children he has taught, then a man is a better lover the more\nexperience he has had and the more women he has loved. That's logic.\nBesides, I prefer the man of the world.\"\n\n\"Suzanne!\" I cried, calling her by her Christian name for the first\ntime--a twinkle in her eyes acknowledged the fact; I was too deadly\nearnest for her to dare to smile--\"Suzanne, is it true? You are not\nexaggerating for fun, or to shock me? Do most young girls of our age\nbelieve that? Does your mother know you think like that? Do you realize\nhow sick and wretched you are making me? Tell me it is not true!\"\n\n\"It is true, Mary. I suppose there is still a pretence kept up by\nmothers, and cur\u00e9s, that young girls don't know how men live; it may\nhave been so once, but now, my dear, we are in the Second Empire! Maybe\nMamma fondly imagines Elise and I are still in our cradles, and daren't\nlook at a pair of trousers: she can imagine just what she pleases for\nall I care. But I am really sorry I have made you miserable. What is\nthe good of worrying about it? The world is like that, you must take it\nso--\"\n\n\"I refuse to.\"\n\n\"You'll have to, or else become a nun. A Protestant nun, how funny!\nBecause all men are the same.\"\n\n\"They are not!\" I cried with fury, visualizing Robbie and the Stranger.\n\"You shall not say it.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, I grant you I know one exception, priests apart, of\ncourse. He is a cousin of ours, on Mother's side, living down in the\nGard, and a Protestant. A ridiculous creature--I don't mean because\nhe's a Protestant--so ugly and gauche, and overgrown and lanky, with\na pale face all covered with pimples. He blushes whenever you look at\nhim, and can't look a girl straight in the face. _He_ has never seen a\nwoman, oh dear no! Does something else though, I expect. At any rate,\nall _nice_ men are the same. If it is a fault at all, it is Nature's,\nnot theirs. It is hardly a reason for hating Emile, that he is normal.\"\n\n\"It would be with me.\"\n\n\"Are you so sure? Suppose you loved a man, passionately, as _you_\nwould--ah, you colour--and found out that he saw cocottes, would you\nfling him over for that?\"\n\n\"It is a horrible, ridiculous supposition, so I refuse to discuss it.\nEnglishmen are not like that.\"\n\n\"_Vraiment?_ Your men know how to amuse themselves in Paris, I fancy.\"\n\n\"It is no good your insisting; I will not believe it. But it will haunt\nme, I shall never be able to cleanse my mind. Stop.\"\n\n\"Certainly. But as to Emile. Now then, Mary, forget the last ten\nminutes' talk, and believe me when I say this: I love him. As much as\nyou would love a man, for all your different ideas on the other thing.\nYou accept that?\"\n\n\"You say so. That is enough for me. My not thinking him worthy of you\nmakes no difference to what you feel.\"\n\n\"Good. And if a man and a girl love each other, you agree that it is\nwrong for any one else to come in between them?\"\n\n\"Yes, if they truly love.\"\n\n\"Well, we do; passionately. I want nobody to come in between me and\nhim, and I want your sympathy. I ask for nothing but to be left in\npeace. For the present, till I think the right moment has come, you\nmust help me to keep my secret from Mamma. She will make a lot of fuss\nat first, then reconcile herself quickly to the idea, and finally\napprove our betrothal. That is, if no one else interferes--\"\n\n\"Who? Mademoiselle Gros is going, or is gone by now. Some relation,\nperhaps, that I haven't met?\"\n\n\"No-o. There is nobody really. I only said _if_. If--Elise, you\nknow--she won't exactly take to the idea at first.\" Suddenly she was\nnervous. The moment she spoke of her sister, optimism and boldness\nseemed to leave her.\n\n\"But you told me she was taking your side in the matter--\"\n\n\"Yes, because she loves me: but for that very same reason she\nmight--just at first--be a little jealous of my love for Emile. She\nguessed it, but I don't think she was ever quite certain we were lovers\ntill today: that is why it was so nice of her to defend me as she did,\nand that is why she was so bitter. It is funny, I know, for a sister to\nbe jealous of her sister's lover. At this very moment, for instance,\nshe is probably locked in her bedroom, lying on the bed, crying her\nheart out--\"\n\nCrying her heart out.\n\n\"However, she will get over that. Poor Elise, my dear good sister!\"\n\nShe moved to the door. \"I am so glad we have had this long talk. You\nare a good friend, Mary: you see I have dropped 'Mademoiselle' too. It\nwill be fun at dinner tonight. Mother will have a face as long as a\npole!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Crying her heart out\" was my burden all the evening. At dinner I had a\nwhole side of the table to myself, facing a gay over-talkative Suzanne\nand an unruffled de Fouquier. The Countess wore an even more harried\nexpression than usual. Elise's place was empty.\n\n\"I do not understand, Madame,\" reported Gabrielle, her devoted\nchambermaid, \"but Mademoiselle refuses to come down to dinner, refuses\nfood, refuses to unlock her door.\" Fran\u00e7ois confirmed.\n\nFrom the moment Suzanne had left me I had been prompted to go and\nknock at her sister's door, to comfort her if she would let me. But\nI was unsure of my reception: she was proud enough to repulse me, to\nwish to enjoy her misery alone. As soon as I could slip away after\ndinner, I got back to my bedroom. There I tried \"Not your business\"\nand \"Meddlesome Mary\" and \"She doesn't want you\" and \"You are only\nthe foreign governess\" and \"You only want to wallow in her grief.\"\nConscience was not convinced; instinct triumphed over sophistry and\ntook me trembling to her door. Here I wavered. Pride shrank anew from a\nrepulse.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" called her voice from within: I knocked,\ndisingenuously. \"Was that you calling?\"\n\n\"It's six hours I have been waiting for you. Sit down, that settee is\nthe most comfortable.\"\n\nShe was lying in bed, half-dressed: sore-eyed, haggard. In comparison,\nSuzanne had been hilarious, the Countess merely peevish. I knew with\nwhom I \"sided.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she began, \"I suppose they have all been at you. Has Fouquier?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"The other two then. Suzanne has confided to you that she loves that\nbrute?\"\n\n\"But you knew it?\"\n\n\"Oh, I guessed, I guessed; but till today like a fool I hoped against\nhope. Now it is over. She loves him. She cannot ever again love me,\nsave in a puny second place. Second place! I do not want it. I will\nnot have it, I despise it, I trample on it! Love is a game for two,\nMademoiselle; a tragedy for three. There is only love in the world,\nand it can never ever be mine. I cannot love or be loved if there is\nanother.\"\n\n\"But she is your sister! How can you love her as you are saying? You\ncannot have the true passion of love for your sister.\"\n\n\"But if I have it, and know I have it, what then? Listen: There is no\nwoman in the history of the world who ever loved any man more than I\nlove Suzanne. 'Cannot' so love her, indeed: but I _do_! Every book I\nhave ever read, every notion that has ever come to me from external\nthings tells me that love is a passion a woman should feel for a man\nonly; I look into my heart and find it is not so. I do not explain,\nor defend, or even understand. I suppose God fashions us in different\nmoulds, makes some of us to love one way and some another. Why not? And\nwhy should He, Who, as your Bible says, is Himself Love, why should He\nlimit this chief thing in His universe to the one narrow relationship\nof man and woman? A woman can love her friend more purely, more nobly\nthan ever any man can; and with the bond of blood in addition, her\nheart can hold a love more intimate, more tender than you will find in\nall the stories of the sexes. Am I mad to talk so? It is the truth. Do\nyou understand? Do you see?\"\n\nI was slowly learning to accept as true for others emotions my heart\ncould never feel, my mind with difficulty comprehend.\n\n\"I think I see. But how many other sisters are there who feel as you\ndo? Does she?\"\n\n\"Ah no! She has never cared, never conceived how I love her. She is\ncareless, indifferent, does not come to me when I need her: an ordinary\nsister. Sometimes the contrast between her insouciance of what I have\nfelt and my passionate love for her has maddened me. Yet indifference,\ncoldness, I could have borne for ever, but not that she should love\nsome one else. Ah, no, no, no! Oh, my little sister, thou art the only\ncreature I have ever known to love, and thou hast killed me. God made\nme to be loveless. He decided this cruelty from the Beginning. I had to\nlose her. I keep saying over and over to myself: it had to be, it had\nto be--\"\n\n\"Had it to be _him_?\" I was crying, but had to stop her somehow.\n\n\"No,\" with sudden fury. \"If she is to have a man, it shall be some one\nless vile than he. Have you any conception, Mademoiselle, of what this\nman is?\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied, which after hearing the Countess' version and then\nSuzanne's, was near the truth.\n\n\"First of all, he is a scoundrel, who for years has been using his\nposition here to rob my mother; he must have pocketed hundreds of\nthousands of francs of ours. Later we will talk of my plans to get rid\nof him, in which I want you to help me: for I am determined to drive\nhim out of this house. I have known all this, more or less, since I was\ntwelve, but for different reasons I have never thought it worth a storm\ntill now--\"\n\n\"Till he is taking Suzanne from you.\"\n\n\"True. I know his thefts are not the reason, but they are my best\nweapon, and at the least a sufficient excuse for his having no handling\nof _my_ affairs: I am nearly twenty-one, and his power-of-attorney for\nMamma shall not hold for me. Then, he insults my father's memory and\nthreatens mother he will make public things to my father's discredit.\"\n\n\"What kind of things?\"\n\n\"Oh, money-matters, politics; his private life too. Mother is\nfrightened, whimpers to herself 'I dare not.' Then I happen to know a\nfew details about this brute's habits, and that even for a man--even\nfor a man, mark you--he is foul. Not for my own sake, but for her own,\nshe shall not be sacrificed to this beast. I shall stop it. And you\nwill help me, because you are fond of Suzanne.\"\n\n\"No, because I am fond of you.\"\n\n\"For both of us, then. Before you came just now I had made up my mind,\ncrying it out alone, that if ever a man the least bit worthy should\nwant her, I would stifle my jealousy, sacrifice myself, and wish her\nwell.\"\n\n\"But, Mademoiselle--you being you, and your love for your sister being\nwhat it is--would you ever admit that any man was the least bit worthy?\nI don't think you believe there is any such man in the world.\"\n\n\"Nor is there.\"\n\n\"That is foolishness. There are as many good men in the world as good\nwomen; probably more.\"\n\n\"The foolishness, my poor little English girl, is yours. You simply do\nnot know. You simply do not know what men are. They are our masters,\nand we are their slaves. They gorge themselves on the pleasures of\nlife, and leave to us the sorrows. With the bourgeoisie and the\npeasants it is the same. The girl brings her little _dot_, for him to\nspend in the caf\u00e9s and on gaming and vice; she brings her health for\nhim to ruin, her self-respect for him to steal, her body for him to\nbefoul. Her father will sell her to any filthy jaundiced old rou\u00e9 whom\nhe thinks a good enough 'party'--he would be a good deal more careful\nin matching his mares and sows. If there is poverty to be faced or\nshame to be suffered, who bears the burden? When in one of the villages\nthere is an unwedded peasant girl who gives birth to a baby, which of\nthem ought to suffer, and which does? The girl is turned away from\nevery honest door, trampled under: the man, who will naturally have\na poor wife of his own, laughs, pays nothing, forgets, and seduces\nanother. That is the law of the Empire, that is justice, that is\n'the way of the world.' Once when I helped a poor drab out of my own\npocket--'Remember your position,' said dear Mamma. Bah! position. Why,\nin our class it is worse: we must sit at home and simper and embroider\nand maintain the great traditions of the lady of France, while Monsieur\nobeys only his pleasure, squanders our wealth, gambles, haunts Paris,\nand keeps his woman. We smirk and say nothing. 'Such a happy marriage,'\nthey say. Ah, their filthy politeness, their ducking and bowing and\nfawning, picking up fans, opening doors, kissing our hands:--every\ntime mine is kissed, which isn't often I assure you, I feel there is a\nhole burned in my flesh. Ah their beautiful woman, their adorable sex!\nThe moment our backs are turned, at once their voices become low and\ngreasy, they are all winks and leers and sniggers and bawdy tales. It\nmakes me vomit--\"\n\n\"Elise!\"\n\n\"Don't stop me, don't dare! No other French girls are as I am: till now\nI never found any human soul whom I could tell what I feel: I must have\nmy way, and you must listen. Do you deny it--the injustice, the cruelty\nand the foulness? Oh why is the world so cruelly made that while women\nknow how to love, men only know how to lust?\"\n\nAll through this tirade I was conscious of an instinct within me that\nanswered to its bitterness, an instinct of sex-hatred for men as men,\na savage half-sadistic hope that women would one day get even, would\ntriumph, would trample! But as her bitterness waxed, mine waned, and\nthe remembered male faces of my heart put this evil instinct to flight.\n\n\"It is not true. I hate this wickedness with the selfsame horror as\nyou, but though I know nothing of the world, I know down in my own\nsoul--I know as I know God, I know as I know myself--that they are not\nall like that. God did not make one sex all good, the other all bad. I\nknow there are men who love as-purely and passionately as we do. You\nwould believe it if there was one such who loved you. Suppose a man\n_did_ love you, then what?\"\n\n\"Ah, suppose, suppose!\" She savagely ripped open her blouse and vest,\ncaught my hands and placed them on her bare body, on a poor flat cold\nbosom. \"Ha, ha, ha!\" She laughed like a madwoman.\n\nSuch is the egotism of the human heart that even in that moment of\npurest pity, when I would have given my right hand to help her and ease\nher sorrow, even in that moment, and against my will and against a\nloathing for myself and my selfishness that accompanied (but could not\nstifle) the joy, there coursed through my veins a high triumphal joy\nthat I was not as she. In an involuntary gesture I threw back my head,\nand _my_ bosom heaved with pride; a hundred half-glimpsed notions of\ndelight tore through my soul.\n\n\"Ah, suppose, suppose!\" she was mocking, \"how I pine for that dear\nsupposed one.--No, dear, I had but one love, my little sister, and a\nman has taken her away. She was not worthy, but I loved her. Now I have\nno one, and no one will ever love me. It is cruel and all the universe\nis cruel. God is cruel to let the world be so:--oh, I forgot, He is\na Man, and had no daughter, but a Son. Oh my little Suzanne that I\nloved--oh no, no, I cannot hear it!\"\n\nShe broke down utterly, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. My\narms were around her. Very long I held her, till she had sobbed some of\nthe misery away.\n\nAfter a long while she sprang free, dried her eyes, and said in her\ncalmest every-day voice: \"I am hungry.\"\n\n\"Shall I go downstairs and tell them, or ring?\"\n\n\"Ring; Gabrielle will come. I don't want the others. Before you ring--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Kiss me.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX: CARDBOARD\n\n\nIt was odd to see normal relations resumed next day at table.\nAbnormally normal indeed, for we were all a little too much at our\nease, a trifle too friendly and natural. There was a chatting and a\nsmiling, and a veritable phrensy of cruet-courtesy. It was \"Do have\nanother pancake, Mamma, they are so good today:\" \"now finish up the\ngateau, Suzanne, I don't think Louise ever made a better.\"\n\nOn the Countess' part there was little dissimulation, for her anxieties\nhad calmed down with surprising ease. She had cornered me again, first\nthing in the morning, for \"just one word.\"\n\n\"They have been talking to you, I know. How late you stayed with Elise!\nNot for the world would I try to learn their confidences, but one thing\nas their mother it is my duty and right to know. Tell me that my worst\nfears are without foundation.\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\" I looked her full in the face with a confidence-inspiring\nfalse honesty. After all, it was the truth; her worst fears, she had\nsaid plainly, were for Elise.\n\nElise alone could not dissimulate her yesterday. Red eyes no craft,\nno cosmetics, can conjure away. Suzanne was boisterously at ease; de\nFouquier suave, unchanging. Suzanne's ease did not seem artificial.\nThere had been a fright and a fuss yesterday, and trouble would no\ndoubt break out again--one of these days. Meanwhile, she would eat,\ndrink and be merry. How I envied her \"meanwhile\" temperament.\n\nI had a bewildering mass of new impressions to digest, all of one\nday's serving. That mother and two daughters, from their different\nangles, all saw menfolk in the same light was a testimony that\noverbore my passionate resistance. Many men, at least, must be as\nevil as they said. Frenchmen perhaps. I idealized my own men only the\nmore. Similarly, while the lack of all friendship between mother and\ndaughters sank into my mind as a fact that was probably general, I\nidealized my own mother all the more. Perhaps the Fifth Commandment is\nonly ever perfectly obeyed by children whose parents are dead.\n\nAbove all, I could now visualize to my heart's content without any\nbreach of Resolution. I melo-dramatized the intrigues and troubles of\nthis family, casting myself (of course) for the leading part. I had a\nfriend to rescue from a villain, a family to rid of its foe; secrets\nand papers with which this man threatened my friends to discover and to\nuse for his own dramatic undoing: here was a r\u00f4le I had been destined\nfor from birth....\n\nAnd here for the first time in this record I shall deviate from the\nplan of absolute completeness at which I have aimed, and shall pass by\nmuch in silence. The whirlpool of petty melodramatic intrigues into\nwhich I was now plunged--though no doubt more violent in my imagination\nthan in sober fact--might yet form the subject of an exciting tale.\nBut it has no place in this narrative, which deals with MARY LEE. The\nperson who took her full share in these doings, in absorbing (or, if\nneed be, in worming out) still more intimate confidences from the\nthree Frenchwomen, in gracefully raiding M. de Fouquier's quarters\nand hunting among his papers, in discovering the prattlings and\npreferences of the servants, in establishing that Gabrielle was for\n_us_ and that Fran\u00e7ois was for _him_, in discovering that while the\nvillainy and vileness of Fouquier had probably been exaggerated by\ntwo of his friends his noble passionate character had certainly been\noverstated by the third, in taking a leading part in all the plans and\njealousies and intrigues, which from Countess to Kitchen filled every\nperson and place in this Norman mansion--this person was not the Mary\nI am chiefly concerned with, but that phantom-personality with brain\nand with appetites but without fears and without hopes, without love\nand without God, who, foisted upon me by the real Me's foolish plan of\nself-effacement, for this year or two ruled within my body, while the\nreal Mary, lulled by the ease and emptiness of that time, lay dormant\nand almost for dead.\n\nThus it is that although across forty years the Bear Lawn days are as\nvivid in my heart as today's noontide, the years in France I can but\nvaguely reconstruct. Only my brain's memory, the one thing that all\nthe Marys have shared in common, retains them; and what the brain but\nnot the heart remembers is lifeless bones, dimensionless phantoms, as\nunreal as other people. Ch\u00e2teau Villebecq, the house, the park, the\npeople, stand before my eyes--now, as I strive to conjure them up--like\nthe cardboard scenes of a stage. When, years later, I first went to the\nplay, the resemblance at once assailed me.\n\nHardly at all during this period, except at moments in my friendship\nwith Elise, and except in prayer--and then I was no longer in\nFrance--was my soul awake. Not until the series of events in which\nvoices from Tawborough and my soul's native surroundings spoke to me\nagain.\n\nTo be sure, some of the escapades of that other person are clearer in\nmy memory than others. The most foolish and fantastic is the one I\nremember best. Diary, rather than my heart, supplies the silly details.\n\nOne day I took the opportunity offered by Monsieur de Fouquier's\nabsence on some distant farms to inspect the little downstairs office\nwhere he kept his records, received tenants and did business; also his\nbedroom, where the one object of interest--shades of Torribridge and\nkeyhole-spied green box!--was the safe Elise had told me of.\n\nIts solid sides discouraged me. A fine r\u00f4le I had set myself, rescuer\nof noble families from scheming villains. How fantastic we were, I and\nmy plans.\n\nThen, by a stroke of luck, though at first sight it seemed the very\nreverse, de Fouquier fell ill. It was a kind of hay-fever which, while\nnot serious enough (at any rate in France) for doctor's aid, kept him\nconfined to his bed. The Countess meanwhile was debating a day in Rouen\nfor purchases and visits.\n\n\"I ought to, you know. We may be away in Paris for months, and these\nthings must be done. It is all so tiresome: the train tries me so, and\nI cannot travel alone. Oh, dear! And Elise and Suzanne both away, and\nGabrielle or Pelagie are worse than I am on a journey, so flurried and\nsilly. We have only a day or two left. I must go to Rouen tomorrow; but\nalone--\"\n\nI refused to take the laboured hint.\n\n\"Wouldn't you like to come, dear Mademoiselle?\" after a while,\npitifully.\n\n\"I should, Madame: very much! I love Rouen. But this headache\"--I\nhalf-closed my eyes in approved shammer's fashion--\"I mean I feel that\nif I don't take a little rest I shall be quite unfit for the journey\nto Paris: I should be a burden to you rather than a help. Of course\ntomorrow I _may_ feel better--stay, is it not Fran\u00e7ois who sometimes\naccompanies you?\"\n\n\"At the worst he will have to do, though between ourselves I never\nreally trust him.\"\n\n\"Though\"--martyr-like resignation now that my point was won--\"if you\nespecially want me, Madame, of course--\"\n\n\"Would not hear of it.\"\n\nThus I killed two birds with one lie, freeing the house for a whole day\nof its nosy proprietor and its chief spy.\n\nNext morning I waited impatiently for their departure. From my window I\nwatched the carriage out of sight, staring with superstitious zeal till\nthe last inch of the last wheel had disappeared round the turn in the\ndrive. Then I rang for Gabrielle.\n\n\"Mademoiselle requires?\"\n\n\"To ask you a question. You would do anything for Mademoiselle Elise?\"\n\n\"Anything, Mademoiselle. And for Mademoiselle also.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Gabrielle. In the matter I am going to talk about it is all\none: Whatever I ask, you may take it as from your mistress. She sleeps\nbadly, I think?\"\n\n\"I don't see--\"\n\n\"Wait. You take her up a _tisane_, a sleeping potion, sometimes at\nnight when she is in bed? How strong is it?\"\n\n\"As strong as Mademoiselle Elise requires. It is not well for it to\nbe too strong. She sleeps half-an-hour later: with me it would be two\nlittle minutes. Once I could not sleep, and I took a little cupful: I\nslept for nine hours, and could not wake next morning. I was up late\nand Madame the Countess scolded. Perhaps Mademoiselle remembers?\"\n\n\"So I do. Now listen, Gabrielle. Fran\u00e7ois is away today with Madame.\nWho is taking Monsieur de Fouquier's meals to his bedroom?\"\n\n\"I understand! It is I, Mademoiselle. I take him a tisane too, for his\nheadaches. How much does Mademoiselle desire me to give?\"\n\n\"As strong and as sure as you can without his guessing or noticing any\nafter-effects. Ask me no questions. Let him have no suspicions. I want\nyou to give it him now, this morning.\"\n\n\"Good, Mademoiselle. I take him a little meal between ten and eleven,\nand I will give it him soon after.\"\n\n\"Come and tell me the moment he has drunk it.\"\n\nAbout eleven she returned. \"Monsieur has drunk the tisane. I said it\nwas good for the headache.\"\n\n\"Now wait a few minutes, then go into his room again to see if he is\nsleeping--you can pretend you left something--and come straight back\nand tell me. On your way back make sure that none of the other servants\nare about. I trust you. Mademoiselle Elise trusts you.\"\n\nTen minutes later. \"He sleeps with open mouth: as soundly as a\ndormouse.\"\n\n\nMy heart was beating high as I slipped through his bedroom door,\nthoughtfully left ajar by Gabrielle. I had been hunting some pretext\nfor my presence if he should wake and find me: I could invent none, and\nknew it would be useless if I could. For the first moment I dared not\nlook at him. I stared craftily at the lower end of the bedclothes, then\nat the little mound made by his feet, then, very gradually, as though\nmy neck (and courage) were turning on a clockwork spring, up the shape\nof his body under the quilt till at last I reached the open mouth of\nGabrielle's report. He was in a deep sleep: I gave way for a moment\nto the curious pleasure of possessing another human being utterly\nunconscious beneath my gaze. Small clever head, black eyebrows, sensual\nlips, cruel little beard: I absorbed them all with a photographic\nsureness not possible before. It was the first time I had seen a man\nasleep in bed, and I added the fact with zest to my collections of\nfirst-times: first Meeting, first marketing, first omelette, first\nvenison; first embrace, first Rapture.\n\nBut the quest, the keys. I had visualized all the probabilities, and\nprepared my scheme of search. Dressing-table and chest-of-drawers-top\nyielded nothing: I did not expect them to. I searched his clothes\nnext, hoping to succeed before I should reach the most dangerous\npossibility: under the pillow. Coat was barren, waistcoat sterile.\nThen to breeches: some wifely atavism must explain the lithe speed\nwith which I rummaged these, undeterred by a passing pang of modesty.\nTobacco, coins, knife, handkerchief: sorry yield. As I threw the\nbreeches back in disappointment on the chair, something metallic\nclicked: not, I fancied, either knife or money. Was there another\npocket? Quickly I learnt a point in male sartorics, and the unsuspected\nhip-pocket gave up--yes, keys! In fumbling feverish haste I tried each\none on the bunch; the safe was obdurate with all. Ill-success made\nme desperate. Panic seized me. He was awake, staring at me, ready to\nspring and strangle. He moved, he moved--yes, turned in his sleep, you\nshivering fool! Thank God no one saw my face in that moment of beastly\nfear.\n\nCalm again, I tried the keys elsewhere. At last, in a little pink\nsoap-box in the cupboard of the dressing-table, I discovered what I\nknew was the Treasure. One large key and one very fine and small.\nIt was hard breathing as the one opened the safe, then the other a\ndeed-box I found at the back within. Greedy trembling hands snatched\npackets neatly tied with red tape and endorsed with a description in\nItalian, with which I knew he was familiar and--God bless Miss de\nMesurier and Lord Tawborough her paymaster--I also.\n\nPackets of letters, incriminating documents, tell-tale scrolls! It was\nthe trove, the triumph! What villainous secrets might they not hold?\n\nBut when Elise and I, with a rich sense of the historic importance of\nthe occasion, set to, behind locked doors, to investigate our treasure,\nwhat did we discover? Long and affectionate letters from M. de\nFouquier's mother to her well-loved son, friendly letters from his dead\nsister: what a meek, pathetic, uncriminal yield! I was moved almost to\ntears. It was _we_ who were the criminals. And for a while our plots\nwilted....\n\nI shall pass by much of this kind, as well as the whole\ndiary-remembered general life of the Villebecq days: the excursions,\nthe games, the visits, the chatterings, the mighty meals; the\ncomfortable daily round in which we tasted everything--except\neverything, except love and God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI: WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR\n\n\nThe one happening of that time which was able to summon the Mary of\nthis record from her torpor was outwardly the most vainglorious of all.\nI can see now that this was natural. For if the Villebecq puppet had\na greater love of empty ease as of empty excitement, it was the first\nMary who, from the dawn of consciousness, in those Bear Lawn days when\nthe Holy Bible shaped her earliest consciousness, had best loved pomp:\nthe pomp of words, the pomp of hate, the pomp of misery, the pomp of\nGod.\n\nAnd here now came the pomp of rulers, the peculiar treasure of kings.\n\nNot indeed till later years did I fully realize what a unique event\nour Imperial visit was. Whether it is that parvenu sovereigns have to\nbe more careful of their dignity, and cannot, like monarchs of ancient\nline, honour the hospitality of their subjects' roofs; the fact is that\nthroughout their reign Louis-Napoleon and Eugenie seem never to have\nmade a sojourn in any private mansion of their realm. Very occasionally\nduring their progress in the provinces, some ch\u00e2teau might be used as\na halting-place for luncheon or the night in place of the customary\npalace or prefecture. _Ours_ was one such case. The Countess did not\nhide (at any rate from us) that she had taken the liberty of addressing\nherself to the Emperor, begging him on his tour through Normandy to use\nher house as a halting-place: her humble excuse to His Majesty for her\npresumption was her dear father's humble share in defending the First\nEmpire, and her dear husband's in founding the Second. She knew she was\ntouching the right chord. To help and to repay those who had befriended\nhim or his House was with the Emperor a principle, nay a mania: if\ningratitude be the hall-mark of princes, then was Louis-Napoleon most\nspurious and unprincely metal. The privilege of a day and a night at\nVillebecq was graciously accorded.\n\nIf I did not appreciate to the full the exceptional character of the\nevent, I none the less looked forward to it with disproportionate\nexcitement. On the great day I should, I knew, be the least of the\nnobodies; but the idea of merely sleeping under the same roof with a\nsovereign lord and lady, seeing them, hearing them, filled me with\nservile delight. I rehearsed, anticipated, literally cried aloud in my\nbedroom with the high joy of flunkeydom. Monarchs were sacred in my\neyes. They were the Lord's Anointed. Divinity hedged them about. It was\na sublimated snobbery that partook of both ecstasy and awe. Kings went\nto my head like wine.\n\nThe Ch\u00e2teau was all astir with preparations. The musty state-bedroom\nand neighbouring apartments in the unused wing were made fit for the\nvisitors and their suite; rescued from moths--for moths. Workmen\narrived from the villages, decorators from Caudebec and Rouen. Stable,\nkitchen and larder girded themselves for the fray. The Countess was\nin parlous state between the two conflicting voices of family pride\nand family thrift: desire to shine and desire to pare. \"Oh dear, the\nexpense\" trod hard on \"Of course we must do this.\"\n\nIn point of fact all arrangements were taken out of her hands by Elise\nand de Fouquier, who, working in alliance--for the family honour Elise\nwould have worked in alliance with the Devil--were irresistible.\nThere being no gentleman in the house, nor any male relative on good\nenough terms with the Countess to be imported for the occasion for\ncertain duties, Monsieur de Fouquier almost inevitably assumed the\nr\u00f4le of master: he saw to the stables and carriages, arranged for\nthe disposition of the men-servants and the arrival at the station,\nprepared a shoot for the Emperor. Elise's department was the Empress\nand her suite, the furniture and the food.\n\nI, too, made my preparations: in the library. All I could pick up in\nanecdotes from the Countess or Elise, and all that books could tell me\nabout our illustrious guests, I greedily devoured: something in the\nspirit of the Baedekered tourist, who learns up his *cathedrals and\n**magnificent views in advance, equipping himself to understand what he\nis to enjoy.\n\nWider reading made the Emperor Napoleon III dearer to me, as the\nperfect type of Another Person who was precisely what I should have\nbeen if I had been he: the Compleat Mary. He was a visionary whose most\noutrageous splendours had come true, a Mary whose madness had won.\n\nTill now the Empress had interested me less. I began to learn that she\ntoo was a Woman of Destiny.\n\n--On the day of her birth a great cataclysm burst over Granada,\nlightning and thunder such as Spain had never seen or heard.\n\n--Above her cradle appeared that mystic sign which tells that: To be a\nQueen, you need not be born a Princess. That sign, shown once in many\ncenturies, was earnest to the proud child that God had destined her\nfor a crown. Folly?--but faith is folly come true. Dreams of greatness\nabsorbed her. Leading lady was the one part she could play on the\nworld's stage: the part for which the Playwright had cast her.\n\n--One day, on a Spanish roadside, she gave charity and comfort to an\nold blind cripple. \"It is you,\" he cried, \"you, whom God will reward\nabove all other women!\"\n\n\"How? Oh tell me!\"\n\n\"He will make you a Queen.\"\n\n--A woman, she came with her mother and sister to France. It befell one\nday that they were invited to an official dinner at Cognac. Among the\nguests was an old Abbot, skilled in reading ladies' hands (and hearts);\none who, though he honestly believed in his art, took care that it\ninspired him with none but pleasing prognostications. When came the\nyoung Eugenie's turn to hold out her hand, the old man started back,\nhalf in amazement, half in fear. The guests who were watching started\ntoo, since they knew him for a sophisticated worldling, immune from all\nsurprise.\n\n\"What is it?\" cried Eugenie.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ora--I see in your hand--\"\n\n\"What then, Abbot? Quick, tell me.\"\n\n\"A--crown.\"\n\n(Now the great Duke of Ossuna, Grandee of Spain, His Most Catholic\nMajesty's Ambassador to the French Republic, was rumoured to have\nlongings, to nourish intentions.... It would be a magnificent marriage\nfor her, friends said.)\n\n\"A Duchess' crown?\" she cried.\n\n\"No. One more brilliant and resplendent.\"\n\n\"Oh speak, sir, speak! What crown is it you see? It cannot be a\nQueen's.\"\n\n\"No, se\u00f1ora, _an Empress's_.\"\n\n--Folly! Austria and Russia were the world's toll of Emperors: portents\nwere mocking her. Still, suppose Destiny were reserving her some\nfaery fate? Suppose--and she said \"No\" to the Duke of Ossuna. Suppose\nthis comic \"Prince-President\" of the new French Republic, this poor\nparrot-faced Louis-Napoleon, this parody of his great uncle--suppose\nhe carried the parody just one act further? (One never knows.) Once\nintroduced to Sick Poll-Parrot through friends in Paris, she lost no\nsingle opportunity of meeting him--especially by chance. Ambition\nis no idler, and toils at all his plans. She used humility and gave\nadmiring glances, employed her unmatchable beauty and gave alluring\nones; listened attractively to his every word, wrote devoted letters of\nsupport. Soon whisperings reached her: the nation too was beginning to\nsay Suppose? After all, should not a Bonaparte don royaller headgear\nthan republican top hat? (Mad hopes grew bolder.) Yet the step was\nno easy one: to re-establish Empire in Republican France was still a\nconspirator's dream.\n\nOn December the Second the dream came true: multitudes acclaimed the\nThird Napoleon. Not least Eugenie, for he had now that crown to bestow.\nSoon she triumphed, and forced her way into his heart. He loved her.\nAn Emperor loved her. But love is little and marriage much. There, on\nthe very threshold of glory, lay a new danger. She faced it boldly.\nDesperate in his amorous intent--one night that they chanced to be\nspending under the same roof as Imperial host and humble guest--he made\nseen his wish.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ora,\" in a voice plaintive with passion, \"which is the way to your\nbedroom?\"\n\n\"Sire,\" she replied, \"it lies through a well-lighted church.\"\n\nWhat vice and ambition had achieved, virtue thus completed. Her purity\nwon the crown, the crown won her purity. Through the bannered luminous\nnave of Notre Dame de Paris he made his way to her bedchamber, and she\nhers to the girl's wild dream that had come true. Together they scaled\nthe highest peaks of human glory.\n\n\nThe morning of the arrival our Villebecq party assembled in good time\non the little wayside platform. The Countess was fussy, full of absurd\nanxieties; Suzanne in the gayest spirits, Elise calm, de Fouquier\ndebonair. There were guests from neighbouring houses, Fran\u00e7ois with\nassistants to cope with the Imperial luggage, and a crowd of peasants\noutside the barrier. During a long wait we kept straining ears and\neyes for a sign of the expected train: I could not help thinking of\nTawborough on the far-off day when Satan Came.\n\n\"Here it is!\" cried Suzanne.\n\nThe Countess had a last convulsive movement of agony: \"I do pray that\nnothing may go wrong.\"\n\nA stumpy little gentleman in tight-fitting clothes and an enormous\ntop-hat waddled awkwardly out of the carriage, and turned to help down\na showy and beautiful lady.\n\nShort fat legs, a long highly-tailored body; a sallow leaden complexion\nwith two rouged-looking spots in the middle of each cheek; an aquiline\nnose, with waxen surface; a goatee of hair on the chin looking like an\nartificial tuft gummed to the skin; heavy drooping eyelids, and glassy\neyes through which he stared as through a window.\n\nThis was my Man of Destiny. This marionette in wax. The Thing had\nmovement but no life.\n\nI started when I heard the Countess saying: \"This is our English\nfriend, Miss Lee.\" I bowed low, confused with self-consciousness, and\nwith guilt for the thoughts I had been thinking.\n\n\"Good-day, Miss Lee,\" I heard him saying in slow measured English,\n\"you do not get such glorious weather in your country!\" At the moment\nof shaking hands he looked me straight in the eyes with a smile of\ndumbfounding charm. The grey eyes lit up, solved the riddle, showed\nthat Waxworks had a human heart. Except in my Grandmother, I never saw\nsuch infectious kindliness in a look. \"No,\" he was saying, \"I know your\nLondon fogs.\"\n\n\"I don't know London, Sir--\" I was beginning, by way of exculpation.\n\n\"Calumny!\" cried the fine lady. \"Why up in Scotland we used to get week\nafter week of glorious weather. It is all calumny, our French talk\nabout the English climate.\"\n\nActive, supple, fresh, full of pride and health, she was an extreme\ncontrast to the man. Her eyes, unlike his, were frank and honest:\nunlike his, they were hard. Instead of dreamy dishonest kindness, I\nsaw greedy consciousness of her beauty and prestige. Her nostrils\nquivered as she drank in our homage. She loved nothing save herself and\nher pleasures. She was gorgeously dressed. She was bold, beautiful,\nforthright, hard: the complete incarnation of our Brethren \"worldly.\"\nShe possessed the Empire of France, but not the Kingdom of Heaven.\n\nWhat glory--not vicarious only--to be taking part in that informal\nprocession along the country roads! In the old coronetted family\ncoach sat the sovereigns, with the Countess and Monsieur de Fouquier;\nthe suite, the guests, the two girls and I followed in four other\ncarriages. Dinner that night was a Sardanapalan affair: gay lights\nand gorgeous dresses, wealth and wine, power and pride. The menu was\nimperial; my diary, always an amply dietetic diary, records it in full.\nOnce or twice I thought of Aunt Jael's birthday banquet, and of Jesus\nChrist on Calvary, who died to save these dolls.\n\nWhen my eyes were not on my plate, they were chiefly on the Emperor.\nHalf the time he was lost in dreams, dead to the physical world around\nhim, infinities away. When the Countess or another addressed him, for\na moment the leaden eyes lit up, and a gentle, almost womanly smile\nplayed on the slow lips; he spoke a few pointed yet diffident words,\nthen relapsed abruptly into his dreams. Not that the Countess noticed\nthis abruptness, which resembled her own. She had her own absorbing\nreflections as hostess of this triumphant evening--this expensive\nevening. Every new dish filled her with an exquisite conflict of\nemotions. The guests were dominated by the laughing Empress; her\nmajestic beauty and her sparkling talk. I remember no single word of\nher conversation, I only remember that it glittered. Nothing in her\nreally attracted me. I admired the beauty and the brilliance, but they\nseemed to be separate entities, having nothing to do with her as a\nwoman, as a soul. Had she a soul?\n\nOne odd thing I noticed: the Emperor's coldness towards de Fouquier.\nKnowing the imperial gratitude towards all who had helped him I\nmarvelled accordingly, and fell to seeking a reason. Perhaps in\nreality de Fouquier never had helped Napoleon's cause, perhaps his\ngame during the Coup d'Etat had been a double one, running with the\nBonapartist hare and hunting with the Burgrave or Republican hounds?\nAt a later date I discovered that my surmise was exact. And Napoleon\nknew. Fouquier, noting his manner, knew that he knew, and hated him\naccordingly. I fancied I saw plans of revenge forming in the smooth\nobsequious face. Once again Reason, who mocked at Fancy, was in the\nwrong.\n\nNext morning, while the gentlemen went shooting, the four of us\naccompanied Eugenie and the ladies of her suite on a drive to\nneighbouring scenes.\n\nElise had said, \"Jumi\u00e8ges looks best in the very early morning.\"\n\n\"Good!\" cried the Empress, \"we will go before the dew has vanished. You\nare sure it will not inconvenience you, my dear Countess?\"\n\nA rhetorical question, and a selfish one. The whole household rose\nperforce at an unearthly hour of the night. I partly forgave her for\nthe reward our early visit earned. In the brightening mist that follows\ndawn, in the fragrant expectant silence, the majestic ruin loomed in a\nmystery that noontide could never have lent.\n\nAll day I kept as near the Empress as I could, learning that the\nqueenly principle is to do exactly what you like: to be haughty and\nindifferent to your ladies one moment, gushing and over-familiar the\nnext: to demand servile trembling and unseemly giggling turn by turn:\nto allow all whims to yourself and none to others. Was not her whole\ncareer compounded of similar contrasts? Her dream of becoming an\nEmpress was wild romantic folly: the steps she took to make it come\ntrue were calculating, of the earth earthy. \"Such another as you,\"\npropounded Conscience.\n\nLoyal smiles and humble gratitude gave godspeed to the illustrious\npair. Among the servants the gratitude varied: where Napoleon had\npassed--the Countess quizzed them all--tips were imperial. The one or\ntwo Eugenie had given were almost as small as I (not yet an Empress)\nwould have bestowed.\n\n\"Five francs for Antoinette,\" repeated the Countess unwearyingly: \"it\novercomes me. Five francs from an Empress! If it had been but ten--\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII: PAREE!\n\n\nExcept for the cab-drives between quay and station at Southampton and\nHavre, and three half-days in Rouen, I had seen no town whatsoever\noutside North Devon. Par_ee_! Par_ee_! my heart kept crying.\n\nNow \"Pariss\" was a poor flat word, and \"Pary\" too, as the French\npronounce it; but by dropping the English S while Englishifying the\nFrench vowel I formed a darling word which my heart could caress\nand unwearyingly repeat, thus giving fullest vent to the delight it\nanticipated. It was Paree! Paree! all the way in the train and on the\nmagical twilight drive from St. Lazare Station (gloomy hole enough)\ndown the great boulevards, past the looming Madeleine, along the Rue\nRoyale, across the great Concord Place, and over the sheeny river to\nthe family \"hotel\" in the Faubourg. Such a glorious city, such princely\nstreets and monuments I had never pictured, never been able to picture.\nParee! Paree!\n\n\nThere were walks and drives with Elise and Suzanne, visits to museums,\ngalleries, churches; though from all theatres and concerts, following\nthe solemn promise to my Grandmother, I was debarred. The brilliant\nnew boulevards were my chief interest. It was often a morbid interest:\nto see the crowds, laughing or careworn, hideous deformities, vile\npockmarked faces, hunger jostling with gluttony; everywhere hurrying\ngesticulating Mammon. I hated them, loathed them with a physical\nloathing that held something of puritanism and patriotism combined:\nI longed for England, for goodness, for the ugly unworldliness and\ncleanness of the Saints. Now and then a gentle-faced little boy (for\nthe little girls were for the most part precocious over-dressed apers\nof the women they would become) lit up my heart with a moment's\ndelight: I would turn round and stare as he passed, hoping he too would\nturn and stare.\n\nOur most frequent pilgrimage was to the Great Exhibition, a faery\nwilderness of gardens and fountains, of pavilions, pagodas and\npinnacles. We witnessed the Imperial distribution of the prizes\nin the Great Hall. On a dais sat the Emperor--my Emperor: Man of\nDestiny, Parrot-Face, Waxworks, Long-Body, the prince of the kings of\nthe earth--surrounded by kings, with the Sultan on his right hand,\nand pride everywhere. When the little Prince Imperial advanced to\nhis father with the prize for workmen's dwellings, wild applause\nsearched the very roof of the glass palace of Industry. The Emperor\nsmiled, smiled dismally I thought, for the eyes were sad, wretched.\n(\"Queretaro, Queretaro.\" His brain rang like a beaten bell. He had\nlearnt the news today, though none of his subjects yet knew. While we\nsaw a Sovereign adulated by the world, he saw another Sovereign--his\nclient king--and a Mexican court-yard, and a firing party. Did he see\nalso the selfsame day three years ahead: himself, and the preening\nSultan at his right hand, prisoners both in exile and disgrace?)\n\nKings, everywhere Kings. For this was the year, more truly than\nTalleyrand's, when your carriage could not move through the streets\nof Paris because they were _blocked with Kings_. I do not think I\nmissed a single royal visit--except the King of the Belgians', as I was\nseedy that day. The girls, even the Countess, made fun of my courtly\nmania: I did not care, I studied the newspapers, and made sure of the\nbest view-points in each procession. Then I would stand for hours, in\npatient royalism, fully rewarded by the instant's pomp and the dear\nglance at the Lord's Anointed. There was the barbarous Tsar, with the\nC\u00e6sarevitch and the young Grand Duke, his brother. Old Prussia with his\nbig minister, one Count von Bismarck-Schoenhausen, who liked France--so\nwell that he visited it again. Austrian Franz-Josef and the ill-fated\nEmpress. Our own hearty Prince of Wales. Lesser truck: Sweden,\nWurtemberg, Portugal, Greece; with the two Louis of Bavaria, the one\nthat loved Lola Montes and the other that loved Wagner.\n\nSo the quick scenes shifted, with the actors princes all: till my mind\nwas raced through by glittering equipages and the remembered faces of\nthe great.\n\nGreatest of all were their Hosts, Eagle and his Wife, though not too\ngreat to remember friends, or to invite our Villebecq household (with\ndependent) to a Tuileries dance. It was not a state-ball, but one of\nthe Empress's \"Mondays,\" an intimate little function for some thirty or\nforty guests. My orgilous delight was chilled by a swift reflection: I\ncould not dance.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Countess, \"you must learn.\"\n\nI saw Grandmother's gentle eyes, appealing, mute in horror. My Mother\ncame to me with a pleading No. Poor kept-in-his-place Resolution dared:\n_What would Jesus do?_ I sent them packing, closed my eyes, barred up\nmy heart. \"Yes, Madame, and at once; there is no time to lose.\" I spoke\nso sharply that the poor lady started back in amaze.\n\nNot that I danced very much at the ball, or cared to; I was the guest\nof an Empress, and that sufficed me. In a wide hall, the Salon of the\nFirst Consul, we stood ranged in double row. Eugenie, in a lovely robe\nof blue satin, of pure simplicity, without pattern or frill, swept\ninto the room, preceded by sumptuous Officers of the Household, and\nfollowed by her ladies. Like the Emperor his soldiers, she passed us\nin review. To each a few gracious words. Yet what right had she to be\nso condescending? Who was she, anyway? Why should a few words from her\nlips be deemed our highest earthly privilege? It was vulgar resentment\nthat some woman else was in a lordlier position than I; it was envy; it\nwas democracy. I was ashamed of my unguestly thoughts when she stopped\nat me and said in beautiful English: \"This is not worth Jumi\u00e8ges, do\nyou think?\"\n\nThe ball began. Most of the ladies were dressed far more gorgeously\nthan the Empress. I remember a tall woman (a duchess, confided the\nCountess), gowned in shimmering black velvet flounced with gold\nguipure; another in crimson velvet sewn with great silver daffodils;\nanother in white satin-tulle covered by a light overwork of golden\nfeathers. Everywhere lace, fans, tiaras, jewels. How plain I was beside\nthem! I despised their half-revealed bosoms, their selfish painted\nfaces, their sensual lips. The old ways and the Meeting would keep\nappearing before me, and Grandmother, and the Lord: I knew that they\nwere right, and these things wrong. Here was I, a saved young woman,\none of the Lord's elected children--tricked out like a Jezebel, with\nflowers in my hair. The old hymn I had so often repeated to Aunt Jael\nforced its way into my memory, compelled me to repeat it to myself,\nverse by remorseless verse:\n\n\n    Shall the Christian maiden wear\n    Flowers or jewels in her hair,\n    When the blood-stained crown of thorn\n    On her Saviour's brow was borne?\n\n\nHere in this King's palace I revelled, my bosom swelling with vanity,--\n\n\n    Shall the Christian maiden's breast\n    Swell beneath the broidered vest,\n    When the scarlet robe of shame\n    Girt her Saviour's tortured frame?\n\n\nAnd I was dancing. The first moments showed me that our Brethren-hatred\nwas good hatred, and Elise's description of men a just description.\nThey pressed insinuatingly, their contact sickened me. O Lord, Lord, to\nwhat fleshliness was I sinking?--\n\n\n    Shall the Christian maiden's feet\n    Earth's unhallowed measures beat,\n    While beneath the Cross's load\n    Sank the suffering Son of God?\n\n\nIt was nightmare. Hatred of all this luxury and glare and godlessness\nflooded me in so physical and overwhelming a fashion that I was near\nto fainting. I turned from the fleshly men, the hard horrible women:\nVanity, Vanity. There was more Resolution in that night's distaste\nthan a thousand sealed envelopes. I pleaded headache, and refused to\ndance again. Elise was no comfort: she was indifferent tonight, not\nrebellious like me. \"What did I tell you?\" was the best she could do.\n\nI could watch them no longer, and suddenly left the ballroom, to wander\nabout the palace rooms, deliberately turning my thoughts to the old\nhistory of this place that I might forget the present loathing. Whether\nor no much reading be a weariness to the flesh, to me it was a resource\nunfailing: I could take refuge from the day's trouble in reviewing the\nglory of yesterday. As for the Tuileries Palace, I would wager that\nno other living English girl could have told herself its tale much\nmore fully: summoned more surely the long procession of its grey and\nglittering dead....\n\nCatherine de Medici, first builder of the palace, warned by an\nastrologer that it would end in tragedy and flames. Louis XIV, the Sun\nKing, lording it in Carrousel f\u00eates. Marie-Antoinette, Austrian woman,\nbrought here with her poor husband from Versailles, brought back again\na prisoner after Varennes. June '92, first invasion of the palace by\nthe mob: threats, insults and obscene shouts. September '92, when the\nvile mob invaded, sent Louis and Marie to Conciergerie prison, came\nhere to yell, steal, sack, blaspheme, and murder, hacking to pieces the\nold faithful servants of the crown, slashing with knives the dying and\nthe doctors attending to the dying: prostitutes ransacked the Queen's\nwardrobes and wallowed, loathsomely, in her bed, kicking up their legs\nin democratic glee. Revolutionaries, Girondins, Mountainists, with\nPrince Robespierre--mean, savage and pure. The flat-haired Corsican\nyouth. From here he went forth to be crowned, from here the Pope of\nRome went forth to crown him. Here reigned the pomp and splendour of\nthe Empire; hither entered Josephine in triumph and hence slunk out\nin disgrace; hither came Marie-Louise (Austrian woman too) in pomp\nprocessional, hence she fled a fugitive. These walls stared at the\ncoming and going of the Hundred Days; at bellied Eighteenth Louis\nand Charles the Tenth his brother, last king of Ancient France; at\nLouis-Philippe of pear-shaped head and Brethering umbrella; at the wild\nmobs of '48 (my birth year), pillaging anew. Phrensy of peoples, folly\nof Kings: change and change about. Each new monarch had sagely wagged\nhis head: \"The others, ha ha!--I know the mistakes they made--I will\nprofit by their example--my sojourn here is eternal--these barns are\nbig, but I will build greater.\"\n\nWith my Emperor permanence had come at last. Him no fears could shake:\nnot by divine right nor mere parliaments nor yet by plebiscite alone\nhad he reached the palace, but by dreams, which alone come true. Here\nhe had entered in a state which mocked his poor predecessors; here\non the balcony he had stood, while the crowd in the gardens madly\nacclaimed him, and the Marshal St. Arnaud proclaimed the Second\nEmpire. Here in a pomp and luxury before unknown he had reigned and\ngloried. From these doors, at the Depart for Italy, he had sallied\nforth; to sally forth again to Notre-Dame, for the Te-Deum for\nSolferino, through roads strewn with flowers and adoration. He had made\nParis the capital of capitals, himself the King of Kings, this Palace\nthe centre of the universe....\n\n\nOne morning a letter reached the Countess from Lord Tawborough. He was\nat an hotel in Paris; might he take the liberty of calling?\n\nMy heart beat fast with joyful expectation.\n\nHe came, once and again. We went out together, sometimes with the\nothers, oftenmost alone--on long walks in the Paris streets or\nexcursions to Versailles and the environs. He was an oasis in this\ncity-wilderness of evil faces: the sight of this Englishman, the\nclean-featured noble face, the fairy godfather to whom I owed all the\nrich experiences of the past year, Rachel's little boy, gave me a\npeaceful pleasure which after my hectic ambitions and intrigues was\nlike dew after rain. The interest of his conversation, the sense of\nworth and superiority (to me) he imparted cleared my foolish brain and\ncooled my insane pride. \"You'd call this gush if it were Suzanne who\nthought it!\" whispered Satan. \"Yes Sir,\" I replied, \"but Tawborough\nis not Fouquier\"--Everywoman's reply. Intellect, character, kindness,\npurity, race--it was a banquet of pure delight.\n\nI tried to analyse for myself the reasons for the exhilaration\nwhich filled me in his presence, and in no other presence; not in\nGrandmother's, though I had loved her always: not in Elise's, though I\nloved her now. I could unravel no reasons, only ponder on the facts:\n(1) that his was the only face I knew which gave me a positive,\nphysical joy, which filled me with tenderness and wonder. I would have\nfed on his face unceasingly if I had dared; (2) that in his presence\nalone the consciousness of self, of omnipresent Mary, left me, and I\nfelt free, unconscious, unburdened, happy: if when he was at hand I\nstopped suddenly and asked myself \"And Eternity?\" I could laugh, and\nflout the bogey; (3) I apprehended that these emotions were reciprocal,\nand this was the chief delight of all.\n\nYet, I argued, this was not Love. Love was Robbie. Love was\nChristmas-Night, one day to be renewed. Still, what lesser word than\nlove could describe the admiration, the gratitude, the fluttering\ntenderness, the pure exultant affection I felt? So in my diary I called\nit love (with a small l) and kept the capital for Robbie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII: I BECOME AN HEIRESS\n\n\nSoon after our return to Normandy I found on my breakfast-plate an\nenvelope in my Grandmother's handwriting. As a rule her letters came\nin small square envelopes of the ordinary English shape and size. This\none was long, plastered with extra stamps, notable-looking, parchmenty.\nPerhaps a consignment of tracts.\n\nI found inside a heavy parchment document, covered with impressive\ncopper-plate, together with a letter from my Grandmother, written not\non her usual cream-coloured note-paper, but on whiter sheets with a\nthick black edging.\n\nCould it be Aunt Jael? The first line reassured (?) me. It was\nGreat-Uncle John, so rarely heard of, though known to me for ever as my\nMother's \"dear Uncle\" and good man. It did not need my special greed\nand cunning to surmise rightly why his Will was sent to me. Inordinate\nhope--changing, as I rushed through my Grandmother's letter, into\nradiant certainty--stifled regret. (Regret would have been affectation,\nwhispered Satan.) Without reading through the letter I stuffed the\npapers into the envelope and devoured my breakfast; preventing myself\nthinking till it should be over.\n\nSuzanne had been watching me. \"You have had good news I think?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, unawares.\n\n\"I'm glad, because I noticed a black-rimmed envelope, and thought\nperhaps it might be bad.\"\n\n\nIn my boudoir I settled down at my leisure, luxuriously to learn the\nbest. Grandmother's letter was one of the longest I ever had from her.\nAs I read she came near me, became suddenly a part of the present.\nFor an instant I saw her face, _in the flesh_. But the self that saw\nher was another Mary--Mary of Bear Lawn, full of fear and floggings,\nsurrounded by God and Aunt Jael; not that Villebecq puppet. I could\nfeel the selves changing place within me--and changing back....\n\nAll the old prayers, the immemorial pleadings. Love the Lord only, and\nHis service. Dedicate this wealth to Him. Lay it not up where moth and\nrust do corrupt. His love is the only true riches. There is only His\nlove, my dearie....\n\nGrandmother dear! Noblest of all the Saints, now high among the Saints\nin Heaven. _How much?_ I wondered.\n\nI found a little summary made by the lawyer on half a sheet of\nnotepaper, which spared my wading through the uncommaed intricacies of\nthe Will itself.\n\nBriefly: there was \u00a3400 for Grandmother, \u00a3200 for Aunt Jael, \u00a3100 each\nfor Aunt Martha, Albert, and certain charities. All the rest--some\n\u00a310,000, or about \u00a3500 a year--was left to me: me, Mary.\n\nAt first I could only think in exultant exclamation marks. Ten thousand\nPounds! Five-hun-dred-pounds-a-year! (Sonorously mouthed.) Wealth,\nfreedom, power!\n\nI was my own mistress now. I could do any defiance, yet have my bread.\nAunt Jael, urged the feeble voice of some-far-away Self. \"Who is Aunt\nJael?\" asked Villebecq Mary: \"Ah yes, to be sure, I remember.\" \"I pay\nfor the Child's music\"--cry that two years ago could have rallied me\nto any revenge--\"I\" now stifled with a bland _Pourquoi_? How silly it\nseemed, how silly Revenge always is.\n\nNo, I would buy a house of my own--the ambition which life in the\nCh\u00e2teau, and other dreamings, had made my chief one now--and I would\nlive there with Robbie for ever. The hunger, the longing possessed me\nmore mournfully, more passionately than for long months. I flung myself\non the bed and covered the pillow with kisses....\n\nI would help the Saints, play Lady Bountiful to the Lord, send much\nmoney for the heathen, succour more than one needy labourer in the\nLord's vineyard abroad. \"Sops,\" sneered Conscience. \"Go and work in the\nLord's vineyard yourself. All that thou hast--\"\n\nHow furious Uncle Simeon would be, I reflected pleasurably. The\nWill provided that if I died all my share was to go (after use by\nGrandmother during the remainder of her lifetime) to Aunt Martha and\nAlbert. So my life, which he loathed, was all that stood between Simeon\nGreeber and the money that he so much loved. Unkindest cut: I had\nplentiful cuts to repay. And for him alone, of Child Mary's enemies my\npresent self nourished hatred: for I knew he was an enemy still.\n\nCould he _do_ anything?\n\nNext morning's post brought the only letter he ever wrote me:--\n\n\n    No. 1, The Quay,\n    TORRIBRIDGE, N. DEVON.\n    November 7th, 1867 A. D.\n\n    Dear Young Niece,--\n\n    Often though one asks for your news--seeks to learn of your\n    material and spiritual state--it has never before been one's sad\n    pleasure to address you a letter in person. Two reasons have\n    guided me today, after much prayer, to take this step. One is to\n    express our sympathy--Martha's and one's own--with you in the loss\n    of your Great-Uncle, who, though you never saw him in the flesh,\n    must yet have been very near to you because of your knowledge of\n    his goodness to your poor suffering Mother, now a saint in Heaven!\n    Martha would have written herself, but she is not too well just\n    now: the Lord is visiting her with bodily affliction. The other\n    reason is to give oneself the opportunity of saying how glad one\n    is to learn of the worldly good fortune poor dear Mr. Vickary's\n    death has brought you. May you use it to _His_ glory! If--one will\n    be frank--one had any pangs of husbandly and fatherly jealousy at\n    the _lesser_ good fortune of one's dear wife and son, they were\n    quickly o'ercome. Prayer has won one's heart from worship of the\n    Golden Calf, and made one able to be with you in spirit in this new\n    privilege and _duty_ the Lord has conferred upon you. May you live\n    long to use it in His Service is one's humble prayer!\n\n    One hears of you often thro' Martha and your dear Grandmother. One\n    rejoices to know that, in that Papist land, you still find the\n    reading of His Word the chief of all your joys. One hears that\n    you appreciate most that \"_Book_ of the heart, and _heart_ of the\n    book,\" viz, the Psalms. Yes, one can find there words of succour\n    for any circumstances, any frame of mind. The Psalms are prophetic\n    of _His_ sufferings and glory, notably the 22nd, opening with His\n    cup of agony when abandoned for _our_ sins; like Isaiah 53 they\n    point only to Christ (how one loves verses 5 and 6 for the peace\n    they have brought one)--Christ revealed by His Word and Spirit!\n\n    Poor dear Mr. Vickary, how quickly gone! One knew him not at all,\n    but one felt it keenly. One believes he was naturally a good and\n    lovable character--but how one longed to know something much more\n    than that! One's own little son is giving one great hope and\n    comfort. Though cursed with many faults, alas, of both character\n    and temper; and humble as intellectually he may be; yet he reads\n    the Word continually, and speaks to one freely on the subject, so\n    that one can form a fair opinion of his spiritual state.\n\n    Dear Martha and Albert send their love, in which one is glad, with\n    prayerful sincerity, to join. One has been dwelling much lately on\n    Philippians iv, 8.\n\n    Accept one's best Wishes,\n\n    SIMEON GREEBER.\n\n    P.S. LAY NOT UP FOR YOURSELVES TREASURES UPON EARTH. (St. Matt. vi,\n    19.)\n\n\nI was uneasy, but what could he _do_?\n\nThe family learned my good news, hoped only it did not mean my leaving\nthem. To do so had indeed never crossed my mind; for my plans,\nhouse-dreamings and the rest were, as always, watertight: in the\ncompartment of daydreams, and having no connection with my immediate\ndoings. Even had I wanted to go away, I was as penniless as before\nuntil my twenty-first birthday should arrive.\n\nThe first two or three days after the Windfall I gave only these\nsurface-thinkings a hearing. All the time--even from the very second\nthe news entered my brain--Other Self was murmuring, though for a\nfoolish day or two I fought her down. Then, one silent night, she\nbroke loose, crashed through the silly web of pride, greed, and\nheathen-helping, and rained at Snob-Mary (whom \"I\" loathed this night\ntill I could have spat in my loathing) the hard questions that only the\nfools who dare not face them say are not worth facing.\n\nAre you not commoner, meaner, lower, since this money?\n\nIs not the Safety you now possess utterly undeserved, selfish, fatal to\nyour soul?\n\nYou have your wealth: how will God get even?\n\n\u00a3500 is a goodly treasure: but what will it serve you 500 years from\nnow?\n\nWill gold protect you from Eternity?\n\nAre you happier, any happier at all?\n\n\nLife was a search for the happiness that is the secret of the world.\nThe key was not of Gold.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV: I BECOME A DAUGHTER\n\n\nWe had arranged to spend a certain day in Rouen, but when the day came\nI did not feel well: I was tired and inclined to be feverish. The\nfirst sign of a coming illness, to which bad dreams and bad conscience\n(Money) were each contributing. I asked to be left at home. The\nCountess and the two girls went away by the early train; de Fouquier\nalso was to be absent for a whole day, visiting some distant farms. I\nwas alone.\n\nI was restless, and could not settle down to read or even to think. A\nride might cheer me up, I decided, so I went down to the stables and\nordered the horse I always rode. Then I went upstairs and put on my\nriding-habit. By the time I was downstairs again, I felt tired and\ndisinclined. I sent the horse away, and threw myself down in a chair in\nthe great dining-room, without changing back into my ordinary clothes.\nI still had the whip in my hand.\n\nI cannot have been more than half awake, for though I had a dim\nnotion of Gabrielle retreating through the curtains and depositing a\ngentleman in the room, I remember nothing in the way of announcement or\nexplanation. Some one was there: who or how or why I did not know. I\ntook in that he was tall, dressed like a gentleman, and silver-haired;\nbut at his face, for some vaguely-felt reason of half-awakeness or\nself-consciousness or fear, I could not look.\n\n\"Good day, Sir,\" I said, shunning his eyes, \"pray won't you sit down.\"\nNaturally I spoke in French.\n\n\"Thank you, perhaps I will,\" he replied in languid and exquisite\nEnglish, utterly ignoring the fact that I had spoken in French. \"I am\nhappy to meet a fellow-countrywoman in this Papist land.\"\n\nThe ancient familiar jargon flung at me so unexpectedly, and in a voice\nthat matched it so ill, roused me to immediate hostility. And was my\nFrench so bad that he must needs assume I was English? Or did he know?\nBut it was my own annoyance at his Christian phrasing that annoyed me\nmost. Though, to be sure, the voice was not a Christian's. Who could he\nbe?\n\nI looked more boldly, though still avoiding his eyes. It was impossible\nto guess his age. The fresh skin and beardless chin were a boy's,\nthe carriage suggested a man in the prime of life, the headful\nof silvery-white denoted venerable age. The features were small,\npatrician, womanish; the mouth especially being too small for a man's,\nwhile full of pride and authority and race. A lordly and effeminate\n_grand seigneur_.\n\nThe eyes, I knew, were the key to the mysterious face, and at these I\ndared not look.\n\nAll these impressions must have been gathered in a second of time, for\nhe seemed to be still in the same sentence.\n\n\"--Yes, I am happy to meet you, for I feel you are the Lord's.\" The\nlanguid voice fashioned such a mockery of our Brethren speech that for\na moment I could have railed at him for Antichrist. Then I felt quickly\nthat I was foolish, and let him go on. \"Assure me that you are His,\nMademoiselle, pray assure me.\"\n\n\"I may be,\" I said sharply, \"but plain 'Miss' is good enough for me,\ns'il vous plait, _monsieur_.\"\n\n\"May-be, may-be!\" he sneered, for I had roused his spite. \"'May-be' is\nthe cry of souls in torment, the watchword of the damned. Beware, young\nwoman, of your woman's filthy pride. It is the snare of men, the source\nof all wickedness. Woman, subtle of heart and impudent of face, who\nhath cast down many wounded, whose house is the way to Hell--\"\n\nIt was a madman. He had forgotten me, he had forgotten himself. He\nwas hypnotizing himself with his own words; his eyes were wild and\nunseeing. I looked into them now. God, they were not his eyes, but _my\nown_, just as I saw them when I stared in a mirror. I was bewitched,\nand could only go on staring, staring. The mystical excitement seized\nme, the sense of physical existence departed, more surely than ever\nbefore the imminent immanent moment was upon me, I had discovered the\nWorld, I was kissing the eyes, my soul moved forward to reach him--. I\nfound myself stumbling up from my chair in his direction, and with my\nordinary eyes saw him still standing there, still intoning away, still\nalmost unconscious of everything--but not completely, for he knew his\npower over me.\n\nSuddenly, in the middle of a phrase, he stopped. I broke in quickly, in\nsanest worldliest fashion.\n\n\"I should be glad to know, Sir,\" I said coldly, \"why in an ordinary\nsensible house, which is neither yours nor mine, you are favouring me\nwith these extraordinary speeches. You have not the advantage of my\nacquaintance, nor I of yours. Is it Madame the Countess de Florian you\ncalled to see?\"\n\n\"Ah true, true!\"--there was no change of voice or manner, but a change\n(I felt) of person inside him--\"Yes: I am an old friend of the family;\nI came over from Rouen, through which I was passing, and learn from the\nservant that by a piece of ill-fortune the family are in Rouen today.\nHere is my card.\"\n\nI took it, without looking at it.\n\n\"I am an English friend who lives here,\" I said, \"a kind of companion\nto the girls.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed! As I was saying\"--and impatient of the length of this\nirrelevant interruption of his ravings, he half-closed his eyes again\nand resumed the tirade of piety and denunciation and woman-hating and\nhell-fire. He was mad. He was not mad. All the world was mad. _It was\nnot happening._\n\nI was working myself up to face again the experience of his eyes, when\nmy glance lighted accidentally on the visiting card in my hand.\n\nThe news entered my soul before my brain. It was not news; I had known\nit all the time. I stared at the printed letters one by one, not able\nto understand them, understanding them all too well. They stood up from\nthe card, assumed hideous shapes. It was a nightmare. It was not true.\nI clutched at the side of the bed--no, it was the dining-room table\nagainst which I was leaning. There were the chair, the sideboards, the\narmour; there was _he_.\n\nIn my visions of this meeting I had always taken him unawares and now\nit was I who had been surprised. The second part of my dreams at any\nrate should not fail. I gripped the whip more tightly.\n\nIn crowding tumult every word of my Grandmother's old narration filled\nmy heart and brain. I was ten years old again. She called me upstairs\nto her bedroom, pulled out the brown tin box from under the bed, drew\nforth the packet. Each phrase of each pitiful letter was marshalled by\nmy inhuman memory before my eyes. Bitch, Bitch, he called her Bitch. As\nI looked at the white halo-crowned vile beautiful face before me, as\nhe raved away, I did not listen: one by one I went over the ill-deeds\nand the cruel words I had to his account, feverishly I visualized my\nmother's suffering and sorrow till I was at the white heat for avenging\nthem. The hardest part was to keep calm, sane: to keep my will in\ncontrol of my emotions, which were bursting through all the ancient\nbonds of self-restraint, urging me tempestuously to await no perfectly\nplanned moment, but to wound him _now_.\n\nSomehow I kept my voice steady. I interrupted; and, following my plan,\nveered him back into his maniacal misogyny.\n\n\"You have a poor opinion of our sex indeed. What, Sir, if you have a\ndaughter of your own?\"\n\n\"I busy myself not with my children of the flesh, but only with my\nchildren of the spirit.\"\n\nHe was impossibly real, impossibly like Grandmother's story. He meant\nwhat he said; there was no hypocrisy. I was proud of the handsome face,\nhad a lunatic longing for the eyes.\n\nI could kiss him, kill him.\n\n\"I had a child once, they tell me--at least her mother said it was\nmine--\"\n\n_Now!_ cried Melodrama, _Now!_ cried the Plan, and the Mary I had\nalways visualized for this moment achieved herself as--suddenly,\nsavagely--I cut him across the face with my whip.\n\nHe was an old man now, and fell to the ground helplessly. I lashed at\nhim in a blind fury of revenge and righteousness, shouting horrible\nwords of which I hardly knew the meaning. He tried to rise, but I\nstruck him down again. \"Bitch, Bitch, you called her Bitch. You swine,\nGod is paying you back.\"\n\nI knelt down suddenly beside him: \"Father, will you kiss me?\"\n\nI have a distant notion of de Fouquier somewhere near me, of fading\naway into a world vaguer and colder than dreams....\n\n\nThere is a door that leads to happiness. Revenge cannot force the lock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV: WAY OF A SERPENT UPON A ROCK\n\n\nEverywhere there was a cold and mistlike darkness. Shapes emerged.\nBillows of whiter mist loomed nearer through the darkness, came from\nevery corner of utmost space. The dark heaven departed as a scroll\nwhen it is rolled together; the white billows poured in on every side,\nengulphed me, choked me with icy fumes. Was I dead, and awake in cold\nEternity?\n\nThe mists turned into molten suns who scorched my body till only the\nsoul was left, naked against the burning heat.\n\nI died again, to wake once more in a new causeless Eternity of terror.\nAlways there was a menace, everywhere a fear. I knew I was dreaming,\nin a dream within a dream; this gave me no ease, as I knew that dreams\nwere true. Rather were the pain, the terror, the pursuit, more real,\nmore awful, than waking ills. My agony of soul was unsearchable; there\nwas no God even to cry to, for soon I was God, in His loneliness\nwithout help or escape, without beginning and without end.\n\nHuman shapes, with a horror and a power to do me evil far beyond their\nreal stature in my past, pursued, reached, assailed, slew me. Always I\ndied, and always I woke to a new universe of more sickening fear. Aunt\nJael, Benamuckee--every evil face and evil fact from the old days of\nthe life I had once dreamt on the earth, invested now with infinite\npower and unimaginable horror--menaced me, dogged my piteous flight\nalong the unending pathway of Eternity. Uncle Simeon was there. The\nmost horrible fear of my childhood, he was the most horrible now: an\nEvil more ghastly than human memory or imagination. \"Twelve years ago,\ntwelve years ago!\" I whispered. He saw, rushed to the door, while I\nrushed madlier across the roof-room to my attic. This time he would\noutrun me. No, I was in time. I tore through the aperture and just had\ntime, shivering in fright, to huddle down upon the floor before the key\nturned and he was in upon me, over me, peering at me with unpitying\ncruelty and hate, I lay numbly staring at the yellow-pale face, the\nsavage blue eyes, the wet thin lips, the honey-coloured beard--now\ntinged with grey--just as it would be now in \"real\" life, I had enough\nreason in my dream to be able (in a frightening lapse from feeling to\nthought) to reflect. The face came nearer, gleamed physically its hate,\nseemed to breathe at me.\n\n\"Oh, God!\" I prayed wildly, \"Where am I? Tell me, oh tell me! If a\ndream, of thy pity awaken me: if life after death, slay me for ever!\"\n\nNow he was Simeon Greeber the poisoner; he was pouring something into a\nphial, he took a tiny white tablet--fear made my dream-eyes keen--and\ndissolved it in the liquid. Some one was propping me up, his eyes were\ngleaming with hope, he lifted the glass to my lips--\n\n\"Poisoner!\" I shrieked and dashed the glass away. I put my hands\nswiftly to my eyes, and they were _open_. My bed, the Ch\u00e2teau Villebecq\nbedroom, half-drawn blinds, a hundred impressions instantaneously\nreached me. I was awake again, and in this world; my chin and neck were\nwet with the spilled liquid, and he was there, the this-world Uncle\nSimeon, hastily picking up bits of glass. He was real, and I knew it;\nhe looked up and knew that I knew.\n\nCould I sham him into doubting it? My senses had not properly returned,\nand flog my brain as I would, in a frantic second of endeavour, she\ncould not tell me how or why I was here in bed, how or why Uncle Simeon\nwas here beside me.\n\nI smiled, assumed my frankest stare, and shammed that I was dreaming\nagain. (Unless it was, after all, a dream unnameably real, a dream\nwithin a dream.) Staring at him fixedly as though I did not see\nhim--and for a half-moment I saw doubt in his eyes--\"_Madam_,\" I cried,\n\"some one has tried to poison me. Find him, find him!\"\n\nDeceived or no, he was not losing his chance. \"One will find him soon,\none will find him,\" he whispered soothingly, the while preparing\nanother potion below the level of the bed: \"Meanwhile, dearie, drink\nsomething to make you better.\" Swiftly he seized me, grasped my neck as\nin a vice, and forced the glass against my lips.\n\nSomehow I got my mouth away, somehow I managed to shriek, to shriek\ntill I seemed to be losing my senses again. In dream-fashion shapes\ncrowded round me once more: Elise and Suzanne--and the Stranger.\nWhether real shapes or not, they were Friends. I was saved. All would\nbe well. And I fell into a dreamless sleep.\n\n\nTo this day I do not know with absolute sureness whether these moments\nwere dream or waking life. Little is the difference, for is not the one\nas real, or as unreal, as the other?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI: THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES\n\n\nI awoke to find Lord Tawborough by my bedside, with Elise for chaperone.\n\nThe latter soon pieced things together for me. Gabrielle had found me\nin a feverish half-unconscious state on the dining-room floor. She\nhad got me upstairs, and hastily sent to Caudebec for the doctor, who\npronounced me to be in a dangerous fever. Nobody seemed to connect my\nillness in any way with Monsieur Traies' visit. In the anxiety and\nfuss upon the family's return, Gabrielle had indeed forgotten even to\nmention it--till next morning, when his crumpled visiting card was\nfound on the dining-room floor. Nor had any one seen him leave the\nhouse or grounds. (Mauled and aching, his hands before his scarred\nand kissed and bleeding face; crawling, slinking away.) My illness\nhad soon become dangerous; it was doubted whether I could live, and\nElise had sent urgent word to England. My Grandmother had written that\nshe was, alas, too frail and old to come, but that she was sending\nher son-in-law, my Uncle, instead; she prayed the Lord in His mercy\nto spare me. Monsieur Greeber had arrived--an odd little man, very\ngrateful for his reception--and had sat with me devotedly, all day\nand half the night, through the worst days, days when I was racked by\nthe wildest fever, torn by ravings and prayers, nightmare cries and\nsupplications, and had indeed been with me alone, in a brief period\nwhen the doctor and nurse were absent, at the moment in which I reached\nthe turning-point and for the first time recovered consciousness. I had\nrailed at Monsieur Greeber like a madwoman, suddenly become conscious,\nand then as suddenly fallen into a calm unfevered sleep. He had hoped\nto have stayed to see me well on the road to recovery, but word\nreaching him the very same day that his own son in England was taken\nill, he had left hurriedly. The same critical day Lord Tawborough had\nreached the house, summoned by the news Elise had urgently sent him.\n\nMeanwhile, in Cardboard-World, big events had ripened. Elise talked\nfeverishly. I listened with mild interest. Who was Fouquier, anyway,\nand what did it all matter?\n\nI learnt how the Countess had had a mighty quarrel with him, and how\nat last, after so many years, she had screwed up her courage to the\npoint of deciding to dispense with him, though not yet to the point of\ntelling him of her decision.\n\n\"And Suzanne?\" I asked. \"If she loves him as she did before, she may\ntake it ill.\"\n\n\"I don't know. For months I have seen nothing to make me think so.\nAnyway, so far we have told her nothing. She knows nothing.\"\n\n\"And when the thunderbolt descends?\"\n\n\"I am hopeful. The honour of the family....\"\n\n\nThe days of my convalescence held a pleasure that banished the\nnightmare past. Almost the whole day the Stranger was at my bedside.\nHour after hour I lay gazing at the dear distinguished face. I soon\nfound that they all thought me less wide-awake and nimble-minded than\nI was, so I stared with impunity, imparting a touch of vacancy to my\nstare: a shield-and-buckler vacancy. I lay bathed in a new delicious\nsentimentality, worshipping him, drinking him in, idealizing him. He\nwas my Mother's little boy; he had loved her; he had given me the first\nnovel I had ever read, had shaped my first apprehension of nature's\nbeauty. To him I owed my education, my social raising, my life of\nsplendour here. For England he had kissed me Good-bye in the moment I\nhad left her. It was a tender exultant joy to watch his face. He was\nhardly older than the Stranger of the Torribridge hillside morning\nten years ago; though his hair was turning grey, a proud and princely\ngrey. There was the same beloved countenance, manly yet gentle, clean,\nclear-cut, slightly sharp-featured; the same eyes, quizzical-whimsical,\nyet holding the kindness of all the world; the same intelligence,\nculture, race; the same maddening purity and nobleness; the same Call\nto Worship. With something added, not in him, but in me who regarded\nhim: a knowledge that he was a man, that he was dear and desirable\nbeyond other men, that nearness would be very beautiful. Sometimes,\nswiftly, sentimentality would flood and transfigure my normal\nconsciousness. My heart would pass through the last Gate of Tenderness,\napproach the portals of Love. Then in a crowding mystical moment the\nVision changed, and it was Robbie: Robbie and I, we were kissing\neach other, radiantly; Christmas Night of long ago had become the\npresent once again. The Vision would fade, and leave me staring at the\nStranger, liking him, needing him, yet with my heart too full of the\nVision to be able to wonder what _loving_ him might mean.\n\nLove, in its only and ultimate meaning, in the sense of the mystery of\nthis world, of Jordan morning, of the Holy Ghost, could only reach me,\nI saw once again, through one human being on earth, Robbie of Christmas\nNight. Who, where, how, what was he now?\n\nMy spirit would flag a little, and sink from the uttermost heights.\nOnce below the level of that very highest heaven of all, Love the\nMadness passed, and the saner, warmer adoration for the Stranger\nreturned.\n\nWhat were his feelings? I was not sure. The kindness of his eyes,\nwhat was it? A kindness like that must be for every one, must hold a\nuniversal message. No, must be for one person alone, could be lighted\nonly by the human soul he loved. Who? Had _he_ his Robbie-girl? There\nwere moments when I knew he loved me. More often and more surely, I\nfelt there was a sentiment and a sympathy akin to my own, but quieter,\nnearer earth, less likely to stray up the steep Robbie-closed path to\nLOVE.\n\nYet I would play with fire, and, on the level where Robbie was not\nremembered, visualize myself loved by, wooed by, married by the\nStranger. Swiftly I was on a lower level still, where Snob-Mary could\nwallow. To become a Peeress! \"Not so very absurd,\" others might\nthink. \"After all, they were cousins, his mother and her father were\nfirst cousins, you know--though she was, of course, brought up rather\ndifferently, with some Nonconformist (sic) relations on her mother's\nside. However, blood will tell!\" I knew better, knew that common Bear\nLawn Mary was the real Me. Or was it? Except for the kinship of memory,\nhow was she me at all? She was but a poor remembered Mary: what the I\nof today would be to the person inhabiting this body ten years ahead.\nThere was no such thing as permanence of personality, there was no such\nthing as anybody. Ever-different souls inhabit the same body; memory\nalone connects them with their predecessors, instinct alone makes them\nwork for their successors. I must work for mine. I must try to deserve\nwell of the coming Marys, seek to marry them well. Lady Tawborough!\n\nHis talk, far beyond Elise's even, was a high delight. He spoke of\nlife, books, travels; of the South, which he knew the best, of the\nseven cities of Italy, the seven hills of Rome. Of his plans and hopes:\nhow he would soon end his wandering and go back to Devonshire for good.\nOf his schemes for his estates, the work he hoped to do in the country,\nthe book he might write, the position he might win for himself in the\nHouse of Lords. Always there was something he did not say, seemed\nto shrink from saying. Was it that he thought I was fond of him and\ndid not like to wound me by telling me there was some one else: his\ngirl-Robbie? Or was it--?\n\nThose convalescent weeks rank among the gentlest memories of my life.\nMy French friends were kind to me beyond deserts or hopes. I was\nrestored to health in the daily companionship of a Vision of goodness\nand delight. My chief Revenge had been achieved. The nightmare life was\naway beyond the nightmare illness. Hate was now for ever behind me. I\nwas a tenderer Mary.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII: WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA\n\n\nVillebecq Mademoiselle, who would play melodrama, was achieving much\nless in her chosen way of business than still slumbering Bear Lawn\nMary, who had played at life. And now, in these last days (as they were\nto prove) of the Villebecq existence as I had known it, she was to shew\nherself quite unequal to a r\u00f4le of garish prominence she was suddenly\ncalled upon to play. She quitted the stage, unaccompanied by plaudits\nor pity, and died of an empty heart.\n\nThe circumstances were these.\n\nThe first day or so after I left my bedroom I spent in writing up my\nDiary: making the notes on which the last three chapters are based.\n\nThe Countess' arrangements as to de Fouquier's successor were\ncompleted; the gentleman in question, a Monsieur de Beaurepaire, was\nready to take up his duties in three days' time. De Fouquier knew\nnothing.\n\nThe day before the morning fixed upon for his dismissal I was sitting\nalone in the library, writing in my Diary. The door opened, I drew the\nblotting-paper protectively over the page. It was Monsieur de Fouquier,\nand he knew: knew everything. There was a look in his eyes--a look\nI have only seen once besides, many years later, on the face of a\nRussian nobleman, the night before he shot himself in the bedroom of a\nSt. Petersburgh hotel--of wolfish desperation; desperate and wolfish\nas only the eyes of a selfish luxurious well-fed man can become. His\nvoice, however, was still suave, unpleasantly suave.\n\n\"Ah, good day, Mademoiselle. I have come to say Good-bye. I am glad to\nhave had the pleasure of knowing you so well.\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" I replied (I think sincerely), \"though, despite the long\ntime I have been here, I could hardly agree with you that we have known\neach other well. We have so little to do with each other.\"\n\n\"_Directly_, perhaps,\" he said meaningly. \"_De vive voix_, it is true,\nyou have given me but sparingly of your thoughts and views. I have been\nable to learn to appreciate them, nevertheless, thanks to an occasional\nperusal of that charming book before you now. Oh, I read your language\nif I do not speak it. _Vot vud Jesus do? Vot vud Jesus do?_\"--in\nmocking horrible English.\n\nShame flooded me, and hate. This monster, who for months had been\npeering into the secret places of my soul!\n\n\"Vat vud Jesus do?\" he was repeating, with a sneer again and again.\n\n\"Stop!\" I cried. \"I will not listen to blasphemy.\"\n\n\"You will listen awhile to me,\" and he stood against the door, barring\npossible egress. \"You have had a large share in the filthy campaign\nof lies and intrigues which has at last succeeded in turning me out\nof this house. I shall at least make sure that you are bundled out\nyourself. Before I go, this very day, I am going to supply this amiable\nand grateful family with a brief account of yourself and who you\nreally are,--your dirty little shopkeeper relations in England, your\ncommon sailor of a grandfather, your vulgar canting old grandmother,\nyour boozing aunt. Then a few words about your dear father, and your\nfrankness with Madame la Comtesse on the subject of his recent visit:\nhow odd that he did not live with your mother, how odd the little hints\nMonsieur Greeber was so good as to give me as to whether he was your\ndear father at all, how odd the charm of bastardy--\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I broke in, \"if ever I have a husband, he shall exact full\npayment for this. Go on insulting me, however. It will achieve nothing,\nit leaves me cold.\"\n\n\"A husband, ah yes--dear 'R'! How tender your many references to him.\nStrange though it should seem, this world is small, and suppose so\nseemingly irrelevant an event as my forced departure from this house in\nFrance should have some effect on dear 'R' in England? There is my dear\nfriend Monsieur Greeber. Don't alarm yourself, there's a brave girl--\"\n\n\"Get out!\" I cried.\n\n\"When I have done. There are still other results of your handiwork\nto consider. The family's name, for instance? It will benefit, you\nthink, from my departure? Monsieur le Comte--his honourable doings.\nMademoiselle Elise--her passion for her sister--so pure, so natural, so\nsisterly--\"\n\n\"Ten seconds, and if you're not gone, I shall shriek for help.\" I rose,\npale with anger.\n\nHe came forward, seized me, glued his mouth to mine.\n\nIt was no stage-play now. In a strange flooding moment Mary the lover\nof Robbie reconquered the fortress of my soul. Thirty years later I can\nsummon the odd physical-spiritual sensation as the selves did battle\nwithin me. Mine eyes beheld love, and this nightmare moment was its\nnegation.\n\nI only record the moment, shutting the spirit's memory as I write;\nthink of it I will not, cannot. I struggled, for a second or two,\nwithout avail, wild with a nameless sickening fear; prayed in shame and\ndesperation \"Lord, deliver me: Robbie, forgive!\" Then with a desperate\nmovement I freed my face from the foul impact, and gave as heartrending\na shriek as was ever achieved by virgin in distress.\n\nHe made swiftly to free himself, but now I held him tight, clipped him\nto me with such a new savagery and strength that although he knee'd\nand wriggled brutally he could not struggle free. Footsteps were\napproaching--I knew whose--and I managed, during one more second of\nsupreme endeavour and complex anticipatory delight, to hold on.\n\nLord Tawborough entered, took him by the scruff of the neck, wrenched\nhim away from me, and flung him out of the room.\n\nI liked Lord Tawborough.\n\n\"_Les hommes!_\" commented Elise. \"So that's the end of friend Fouquier.\"\n\nIt was. That same day he disappeared from the Ch\u00e2teau for ever.\n\nIt seemed as though the house had been cleansed of a foul atmosphere.\nThe Countess, though already worrying about troubles and dangers ahead,\nseemed for the first time mistress in her own house.\n\n\"Let him do his worst,\" said Elise, \"it isn't very much.\"\n\nOnly Suzanne was nowhere about, seen by none of us. At dinner that\nnight she was not present. Her bedroom door was locked, and she would\nreply to no one, admit no one. Next day we burst open the door, found\nthe room empty.\n\nSuzanne had fled.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was the end.\n\nIt was the end of the Ch\u00e2teau Villebecq I had known, the end of the\neaseful days of bright comfort shot through with gay melodrama, the end\nof the Interlude. For two other women, mother and sister, it was the\nend for ever of this world's happiness; for the other herself too, as I\nlearned long afterwards.\n\nMadame de Florian crumpled up under the blow. All she had lived\nfor--the honour of her name, the worldly success of her daughters--was\nlost. All her employment--the day-to-day strivings towards these two\nends--was gone. In one night she seemed to shrivel up; to become at\na stroke five times more wizened, more futile, more plaintive than\nbefore. Life, perhaps, had never had much to give her; now it held\nnothing. Her days were divided between regrets and self-reproachings,\ncomplaints, servant-scoldings and tears.\n\nTo me alone she confided her woe. I was the one kind soul she had ever\nknown; Heaven had meant me to be her daughter! I gave her nothing from\nmy soul--except pity, poor pity, and even this soon lost its first\nspontaneity; became conscious, conscientious--yet always I could see\nshe was getting what I did not give: a sense of boundless sympathy and\naffection. In every mood and every mope she came to me for comfort,\nand--though I knew full well in my actress-heart that I was giving her\nnothing at all, no real love, no healing sympathy, only the shams and\nsimulacra of these, served up with pity, luxurious self-comforting\npity--always I saw that my shadow was her substance. She returned\nme a boundless gratitude; pathetic, delicious to my palate, cruelly\nundeserved.\n\n\"Ah Mademoiselle, there are not many like you! My life is over. I\nam a poor old woman alone. Only you understand. Stay with me, dear\nMademoiselle.\"\n\n\nAnd I did.\n\nElise took to her room, asked no comfort, refused what I proffered,\nrailed at me for being the real cause of her losing her dear one, spent\nlong days alone in her bedroom weeping, and would not be comforted.\nAfter a few weeks, when no news came of Suzanne, she took really ill.\nWhen sufficiently recovered to travel, she went for a long stay in the\nSouth of France, Gabrielle accompanying her. At leaving she refused to\nsee me, even to say Good-bye.\n\nThe new steward did not live in the house, now a deserted place, damp\nand cold in the long winter that followed, inhabited by memories,\nhaunted by fugitive joys. Through the long days and nights, echoes\nof happiness would ring aloud through the emptiness, and sometimes I\nheard Suzanne's laugh on the staircase or the quick feet of friendly\napproaches in the corridor. Now that joy had taken flight, the great\nhouse became, like Bear Lawn of old, an atmosphere I understood and\nresponded to. It is thus that I have chiefly remembered it ever since,\nit is thus that I remember it now.\n\nI had no plans except--vaguely \"soon\"--to go back to Devonshire for\ngood. When I mooted this to the Countess, her pleadings were so\npitiful, so flattering, that I registered then and there the vow that I\nwould stay as long as she wanted me. It was the one return I could give\nfor the kindness I had received, the one way I could display loyalty to\nthe good past of yesterday: quite a good way also, maybe, of laying up\nfor myself treasure in Heaven.\n\nSo for many long and lonely months I stayed. Except the Countess I saw\nno one. I was as lonely as in the far-away days of my childhood, and\nsoon it was to my childhood that I returned. Imperceptibly, just as a\nyear or two back the Bear Lawn life had vanished, the present glory of\nVillebecq taking its place, so now it was Villebecq (though my body\nremained there) that vanished, and Bear Lawn again that took its place.\nIn bed at night, if my soul was thinking of Mary, the old dining-room\nor the cold blue attic formed the physical setting in which, as a\nperson detached, I always saw her. In the darkness my bed would always\nrevert to the Bear Lawn position, with the wall facing me as I lay\non my right side, although in reality in the Villebecq room it was\nbehind me. Even awake and in the day-time, the articles of furniture\nin my boudoir often changed as I watched them to the furniture of the\nold dining-room, the sense came over me that Villebecq was but a\ndream I had dreamt one night at Tawborough, a dream from which I was\nat this moment waking up, a dream that already I could not properly\nremember.... But--Bear Lawn too was a dream--I had only dreamt that I\nwas Mary. Who was I? Was I any one? Oh, terror, was I God Himself? With\na cry I fell on to my knees.... The fear passed, it was the Villebecq\nboudoir, I was rising awkwardly to my feet. (Had anybody seen?)\n\nEven in normal and placid moods, the first two years of my life in\nFrance soon appeared as a faded memory, the remembrance of something\nI had been told rather than something I had lived myself. The whole\nmosaic of new glittering impressions, storm and stage-play, ease and\nluxury and chatter and intrigue, seemed something insubstantial and\nunlived: something very distant, too, for--by a puzzling experience\nnot usual in the young--I could only see clearly the days that lay\nfarther away. The Villebecq life had been a thin shadow of life, the\nVillebecq drama a puppet drama, the Villebecq Me a pale and partial\nMe. There was a slow battle spread over weeks in which Bear-Lawn Mary\nfought her way back to chief place within me. I remember the odd\nphysical moment--sitting on my bed at three o'clock one morning, still\nundressed--in which she won the victory and in which Mary the gossiper,\nMary the worldling, Mary the Fouquier-fighter faded like a wraith into\nthe tomb of my sub-conscious self.\n\nThe older habits of mind returned. Now that there was no one to talk\nto, I talked, as of old, to myself. There was no present to occupy\nme, so I returned to my pasts and my futures. There were differences,\nof course, and developments: I was older, a little farther away\nfrom madness (which is sanity), a little nearer the world, a little\nfarther from the Lord. My past was seen in worldlier, if not truer,\nperspective; my ambitions were more concrete. The old habits were\nfainter, and the old fears. Hope had gained appreciably on Despair. At\nten I had dwelt morbidly on my few happinesses, knowing that they would\nbe paid for: God gets even. Now, at twenty, happier days had tilted the\nbalance; I dwelt cheerfully on the manifold unhappinesses of my life,\nfeeling sure they would all be recompensed me: Christ gets even.\n\nNot but what Gloom made a good fight for his old supremacy. After all,\n_Eternity was on his side_.\n\nAnd the Rapture never returned. I would pray sometimes for hours, beg\nfor one instant's flowing through my heart of Taw-water and the Holy\nGhost. HE did not come.\n\nThere was a reason. I knew the reason, though for a long time I dared\nnot formulate it, even in prayer, even alone with myself, or more\nutterly alone--with God.\n\nComing from the innermost place of my being, gaining at last my\nconscious brain and soul, and soon possessing them utterly, was the\nknowledge that my only way to ultimate happiness lay not through\nreligion, but through ROBBIE.\n\nFor many days and nights the agonized struggle fought itself out within\nme: God's love revealing Itself directly, God Immanent, versus God's\nLove revealing itself in human shape, God-in-Robbie: memories of Jordan\nMorning, my honeymoon with God, versus hopes of earthly ecstacy, my\nhoneymoon with _him_.\n\nI have never wished, even if I were able, to fit in this story of my\nlife with wise men's theories of human conduct and development. But the\npsychologist or the modern novelist would I think label this struggle\nin my soul as the turning-battle between Environment and Heredity, in\nwhich the massed beliefs of my holy upbringing contended against the\ncall of my woman's blood and the needs of my woman's heart.\n\nAt last--when I had given God His last chance, telling Him in an agony\nof passionate prayer that if He would send me but once again the\nperfect miracle-moment of Jordan it would quench for ever within me all\nneed of human love--and when no answer came--I knew that the battle was\nover. Robbie had won.\n\nHad won in my heart. But what were the chances that I should taste the\nfruits of his victory, that the love I had declared for would, in this\nactual physical world, one day be mine?\n\nI faced the whole question, \"dispassionately.\"\n\nWhat were the facts? Years ago, a sentimental and unhappy child had,\nin a moment of crude (though not contemptible) romantic fervour, grown\nmorbidly fond of another child, and he of her. They had vowed together\nto seek to perpetuate their experience when away from each other by\nmutual self-suggestion, especially on that particular night of every\nyear when the childish emotion had culminated. It was all very pretty,\nquite pathetic too in its way, but what else?\n\nWhat else? Everything. These were the cowardly picturings of\nCommon-Sense: Heart put them swiftly to flight. The only realities\nare the realities of the spirit, and Robbie in the visions I now had,\nnot only every Christmas, but every day--near every hour--was a warm\ndivine reality in my soul. He was with me, kissing my face. Where the\nhuman body of the living twenty-one-year-old Robbie might be I did not\nknow--though I constructed for myself a hundred different stories as to\nhis whereabouts and doings--but that his spirit was with me whenever\nmine was with him I knew in the authentic uttermost way, beyond all\nknowledge and reason, in which I had once known God. Sometimes the\nwhole night through his Presence enveloped me, his face was mirrored\nin my soul. Yet always the ultimate Rapture evaded me; I would reach\nthe mystical moment when the lips of the vision-Robbie upon mine were\nchanging into the dear desired lips of the real-life Robbie, when\nvision-reality and this-world-reality were merging magically into\none--then always, on the threshold of realization, the Vision faded,\nand I was left empty and desolate and cold.\n\nThe mere physical longing, though less intense than the spiritual, was\nnewer and more baffling: for I understood my body much less well than\nmy soul. Oh for him to put his arms around me, crush me tenderly to\nhim, while I should clasp him to my breast and pour out my heart upon\nhim! I would kiss the miserable pillow (and say it was his throat) and\nclasp it and cover it with tears. When bearing-point was passed, I\nwould burst into half-hysterical prayer: Send him now, oh Lord Jesus,\nor banish the tormenting vision from my eyes!--the while I would\nsavagely stop the eyes and ears of my spirit, until God's answer came,\nand for a space the hunger passed away.\n\nDoubt trod hard upon Desire. Fool-Mary as always! You loved the little\nboy then, and he you. It was a child's moment, gracious for the child's\nsorrow that it eased, but over at once and for ever. Love comes not\nback again. All the rest, all these fantastic years of mystical\nrepeatal are but the wraiths of your own disordered imagination. The\nPresence is a phantom presence of your own creating.\n\n\"It is no phantom,\" I replied. \"If anything in God's universe is real,\nthat is real.\"\n\n\"Real to him? For if not, the presence is not real at all.\"\n\n\"It is real to him.\"\n\n\"Are you so sure? You are quite, quite certain: that at the same moment\nin which you possess his Presence, he is possessing yours?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know it. God tells me so.\"\n\n\"But where is real Robbie? Why does he not come to you?\"\n\n\"He is coming soon.\"\n\nAnd with valiant words I chased Doubt away, knowing him for the\ndestroyer of everything that he encompasses, who can make things that\nare true untrue, just as Faith, his enemy, can make of things that are\nnot things that are. Faith makes facts, not facts faith. If you believe\nthat Robbie is with you, he is with you. If you doubt his presence, you\ndestroy it.\n\n\n    If the Sun and Moon should doubt\n    They'd immediately go out.\n\n\nBalked of his actual physical presence in one way I would seek it in\nanother. Memory would essay where Visualization had at the ultimate\ninstant always failed, and would guide me moment by moment through the\nwhole of the old Torribridge time, from the first glimpse, and Uncle\nSimeon's introduction, through egg-day and fight-day to the supreme\nmidnight hour; at last I found I could reconstruct our happiness\ntogether so vividly that _it was actually happening again_. Eternity\nhad turned backwards, the past had become the living present, I was\nsore from the cruel flogging, I was twelve-year-old Mary again, and\nRobbie's arms were around me. Then Memory in his turn failed me;\nin a swift physical way I felt inside me the years scuttling back\ninto their place: it was the old eternal present, and the ideal\nunconsummated, and the loneliness.\n\nThen doubt and fear and need would all together assail me, pressing in\nunison the chief question. When he is real to you, are you as real to\nhim? The answer was always Yes, and the answer was always No. In either\ncase I fell to sorrowing for him: if he wanted me, because of his need;\nif he did not know he wanted me, because of his need also. And I would\nforget myself altogether, and think only of his need of love. How\ncould I give him most, give myself to him most? How could I discover\nand lay at his feet the wild unimagined sacrifices for which my heart\nwas aching? I knew I could give him everything, live for him only,\ndestroy my own happiness for him, give him my heart, my life, my hope\nof everlasting death. Ah, for his sake I would take God's nameless gift\nof immortality, if He would but set Robbie free, grant him the eternal\nsleep. I would do the far greater thing than die for him; for him I\nwould live for ever.\n\nAh, no, no, no!--Robbie asleep for ever, and me for ever alive. Ah, no,\noh loving Heavenly Father, that alone I could not bear.\n\n\nIn two months I filled three large new volumes of Diary: all with\nRobbie.\n\nMuch of it was in the form of a series of letters between us. The\nfirst letter was addressed from me to him: a tremulous self-conscious\ncomposition, asking him to excuse my taking the liberty of writing,\nfeeling certain that he would doubtless remember who I was, recalling\nthat we had been rather good friends, _n'est-ce-pas_?, in that short\nperiod when we had been together as children, etc., etc. I tortured\nmyself for a whole fortnight awaiting, in fear and delicious hope,\nhis reply. This I composed--as I wanted to compose it: friendly,\nenthusiastically reminiscent, but not (being his first letter) so\naffectionate as to damage my scheme of a long _crescendo_ of ever more\naffectionate letters to come. Then my reply, and his reply, till soon\nthe floodgates were opened.\n\n\n    \"Oh, Robbie (at last I wrote), Tell me you are the same Robbie;\n    that now, as a man, you are not some strange man I should not know,\n    but that you have the same loving heart, only more passionate\n    and tender than before; the same loving arms, only manlier and\n    even more ready to embrace me; the same loving boy's face, only\n    transfigured, developed, ennobled by the long lonely years of the\n    love you have given me. Tell me that in body as well as spirit you\n    are coming soon, to love me for ever as I do you.\"\n\n\nHe replied:\n\n\n    \"Post haste I write, because I must speak back to you. I got your\n    letter this morning, and ever since then have been full of it,\n    and full of joy. Never in all the letters you have written me\n    have I felt so much of you in it, never have I felt you so near,\n    so completely in sympathy and understanding, so exquisitely, so\n    utterly in love. (I cannot restrain myself from uttering this.) As\n    I read and re-read your letter, I feel, at this very moment as I\n    write, that we are alone, alone and together; I can hear you crying\n    out and I send back the echo; but it is no echo now, for we are so\n    near: only distances echo, my Mary dear. Tonight I am fuller than\n    I have ever been before, full because of your inspiration, of your\n    influence; but not this alone, because I am my own influence, and\n    it is this which sways me now. The outer world is a great silence,\n    a mere waste of towns and cities, empty and desolate as a city of\n    the dead, a place of graves. All the people around me are shadows,\n    are only for themselves, but we are for each other, and all all\n    else is dead.\n\n    \"The Christmas promise has come true for ever. Now it is a great\n    joy to live, and not to live has no terrors. Everything is at the\n    highest point of its change; all is changed by this thing we know,\n    this secret we have discovered, and I am glad. We alone are its\n    guardian, but it needs no guardian, because Mary and Robbie before\n    discovered it, and have guarded it ever since.\n\n    \"I shall come very soon now. But do not fret: this long absence in\n    form has meant a more palpable presence in spirit. For the soul\n    needs space: it flies, like a kite, and you hold the line; the line\n    is of interminable distance, the kite of immeasurable power. It\n    flies happy, among the life-giving, high breezes; and it makes you\n    happy, a child at the other end, a child with a kite--the child\n    whom I loved that night long ago and who loved me, the dear Mary\n    whom I will love and who will love me for ever. She is the child\n    who has not changed--it is the same face, though a woman's now, and\n    it is with me by day and by night....\"\n\n\n    \"Robin,\" I answered, \"your letter is the goodliest yet: it has\n    given me a day and a waking night of celestial happiness--for I had\n    it yesterday only, and like you I reply 'post-haste.' You bring\n    me to the house of happiness, and your banner over me is Love:\n    but when will your left hand be under my head and your right hand\n    embrace me? My letters bring you happiness too: but when will you\n    read them with the eyes of the flesh as well as the eyes of the\n    spirit? You say you will come to me 'very soon:' but you will come\n    before the ink on these pages has faded? (If it can ever fade, for\n    it is the blood of my aching heart.)\n\n    \"Now dear, I kiss your brow, your dear eyes, your mouth; I place my\n    lips upon your dear glorious little heart. All the love that was in\n    the beginning of the world, that is in the universe now, that will\n    people Paradise through all the everlasting years, is in me now; I\n    assemble and concentrate it into this moment, into the kiss that\n    I am giving you at this moment as I write. From face to feet, my\n    heart's beloved, Good-night!\"\n\n\nAt last, after two or three months of these imaginary letters, I wrote\nthe real one which was the necessary condition of their ever becoming\nreal: I wrote to Aunt Martha. I always wrote to her on her birthday:\nit was near birthday-time, so no other pretext was needed. I made\nmy letter rather longer than usual, introducing the one thing that\nmattered with appropriately na\u00efve and casual abruptness. \"By-the-way,\"\nI asked, as careful after-thought, \"do you ever hear anything now of\nRobert Grove. He was a nice boy, and I have often wondered what became\nof him?\" And I made a Special Temporary Resolution to shut the door of\nmy spirit as far as possible (weak proviso) till Aunt Martha should\nhave given me some news.\n\n\nIt was only a day or two after writing this letter that a letter I\nreceived--from Lord Tawborough, now back in England--ushered in a new\nphase of spiritual trouble. Robbie had vanquished Almighty God: was\nhe to be vanquished now by a mere peer of England? Very vividly the\nStranger re-entered my imagination. He had thought it discreet and\nkinder to leave the Ch\u00e2teau almost immediately after the Fouquier\ncrisis and Suzanne's flight, and in the turmoil of those days and of\nElise's bitterness and then in the long loneliness and the following\nperiod of return to religion and to Robbie, he had been very little\nin my thoughts. This letter brought him gladly, warmly back. My heart\nbrightened as I mused upon the well-loved features, the manifold\ngentleness, the secret sympathy, the goodness he had shown me,\nthe delight I knew he found when near me. And this was no kindly\nbenefactor's letter, no tenderest of distant cousin's letter, no\n7th of the Title's letter. It was but a Best Friend's letter. For a\nmoment my heart recoiled from immediate irrepressible \"Is it a Lover's\nletter?\" Some one said \"No\": it was the Mary who wrote the mad missives\nto Robbie and the mad missives from Robbie to herself. Some one else\nsaid \"Yes\": it was the this-world Mary whom every one (save Mary) knew.\n\nAt that instant of time, I think, more surely and more strangely than\nat any other time in my life, I knew and in spiritual-physical fashion\nfelt and understood that there was no such thing as \"I\": that there\nwere many living and disparate beings inside me. As I mused pleasurably\nand lovingly on Tawborough (Quick! What was his Christian name?--I\nhad never heard it, I must learn it, or invent it, find swiftly some\nendearing name to give him in my thoughts), not only Robbie, but the\nMary who loved him beyond all heaven and earth, was some one far away,\nsome one I had been, should be yet again, but was not now; some one\nelse whom the present-moment \"I\" could contemplate from the outside,\nbut from the inside not at all.\n\nThus there was no sense of conflict or contradiction. Simple souls say:\nYou cannot love two people at once. Shrewder souls add: Not in the\nsame way. Both miss the point, ignore the real mystery: that _you_ is\ntwo folks and not one, a divine self and a human self: with two loves\naccordingly, a human love and a divine love. At the selfsame moment of\ntime the two selves cannot both be in possession, and the two loves\ncannot be felt together. There is no clash and no conflict.\n\nI reasoned out my hope. That the real Robbie, when I met him, would\nconquer utterly the human me, win all my liking, answer all my needs.\nReal Robbie and Dream Robbie would become one: real Mary and dream Mary\nwould become one. Love would be everywhere, the two selves would mingle\nand make at last one Mary, the world would be revealed--God was in me,\naround me--I am the Universe--. There are no words....\n\nBut if chance--I dared not say Death--decreed that in this world I\nshould never see Robbie? Then the human liking and earthly possibility\ncould never merge into the divine romance. The quest my soul was\ncreated for would be over: Eternity would not be Love. Yet, I was a\nwoman--and I loved the word \"marry\"--and the Stranger was my chief\nhuman liking and earthly possibility--and this world's happiness was\nworth possessing even though emptiness lay beyond.\n\nSo if Robbie is not given to you, said Reason, the Stranger will be\na glorious second-best. \"Glorious Second-Best.\" dinned Reason in my\nheart, and a whole crowd took up the echo: snobbery and sanity, and\npride and probability, and intellectual sympathy and physical delight.\n\nBut first I would search the world for Robbie.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuddenly my heart learned that Robbie, wherever he was, knew that I\nwas musing thus: knew that I was toying with notions of Tawborough,\nand over _his_ deathbed was meditating eventual treason. Suddenly my\nheart understood how his own was aching. The magnitude of my vileness\nsickened me. I could find no sleep, nor heart to sleep. All night I\nheard him crying out, saw his dear face wistful with doubt. I told him\nit was not true, that I loved him and him only. He did not hear me; I\ncould not make him hear me; I knew that his heart was still aching.\n\nI got out of bed, wrapped my dressing-gown around me, went through\ninto the boudoir, and wrote in my Diary this following letter. (The\ninkpot was empty, and even if I had had the courage to take my candle\nand to go through the long dark corridor and down the stairs in search\nof ink, I should not have gone. For time was precious. I knew that,\nmagically, each word as I wrote it would bring ease and comfort to\nRobbie somewhere far away, and my heart could not abide that his own\nshould suffer for one moment longer. So I snatched a pencil, glad for\nRobbie's sake to mar the neat inky well-beloved uniformity of my eight\nyears' diaries, and scrawled feverishly at the frantic dictation of my\npassionate heart. Today, as I copy, the pencil is faded, and the page\nthe hardest to decipher in all the record):\n\n\n    _To Robert Grove_,\n\n    _Wheresoever You Are, my Dear!_--\n\n    How sorrowful you are tonight, how evil am I since I am the cause!\n    But I write post-haste to send you tidings of comfort, to tell you\n    there is no other in my heart but you, to send you my everlasting\n    love. You came to me Christmas Night, and you came for ever. There\n    has been no other, nor ever can. _What can the man do that cometh\n    after the king?_\n\n    My friend who is causing you such grief, you know who he is--tho'\n    'tis nine years now since the moment I knew you--tho' you have\n    never seen him nor (in earthly way) even heard his name--I know\n    that you know. He is Lord Tawborough, my cousin and my benefactor,\n    and my very dear friend, tho' much older and cleverer than I. But\n    do understand, dear Robbie, that the respect and affection in which\n    I hold him are _only_ the reflection of his generosity and loving\n    kindness to me. It is he who gave me my education, gave me my good\n    fortune, who has always been far, far too kind to me. And now that,\n    here in this land, I have met with him again, I like him better\n    than ever. How could I not?\n\n    There is \"like\" for him and for you my whole girl's aching LOVE.\n    Even when I am looking at my kind friend's face, suddenly I will\n    stop the working of my mind and will turn to look for you, trying\n    to grope out where in this world at the exact moment you are; and\n    God always helps me to make a picture which I know is near reality.\n    At this moment I can see you--vaguely--dreamily--in a bright city\n    whose name I do not know, but where often I have sojourned in\n    dreams. I cannot actually _touch_ you now: for our meeting-place\n    is not in cities or houses or streets or fields; rather we go to\n    meet each other in the skies and oh! Robbie! my spirit! my soul!\n    what a meeting we have, how happy, how jubilant, how full of the\n    glory which is not of the earth, unutterable, something I cannot\n    speak, or say, or write; something only which tears my heart into\n    a thousand particles of agony, which is the divinest, wildest,\n    fiercest, holiest, sweetest joy of all. The agony of love, Robbie,\n    how it wounds! The moments when, in vision, I cannot invoke your\n    face, how cruelly long they seem! Then betimes your dear face\n    forms among the mists of all my wildness and restlessness and\n    smiles upon me in a peace that is infinite, and passeth all men's\n    understanding. Now, Robbie, know that this is no earthly thing I\n    have, you have, but a thing entirely of the soul, a gift entirely\n    of God. It should leave us tolerant and truthful, ever knowing that\n    no other friends (however dear) can ever endanger it, even conceive\n    of its meaning; and ever waiting for its supreme fulfilment.\n\n    Can I have this for any but you? Can any but you have this for me?\n    Why, my Robbie, can you ask?\n\n    I stretch out my arms through the unknown to reach you. I would\n    comfort you, cover you with eternal kisses. Stretch your dear arms\n    out too, put them around me, crush me against your breast.\n\n    Come to me now, and come to me soon for the time that will be for\n    ever.\n\n    Mary of Christmas Night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII: DEATHBED\n\n\nFor over a year I was alone in the great empty ch\u00e2teau with my dreams.\n\nI ate and slept, and took walks in the park and the country-lanes; I\ncomforted the ever-shrivelling Countess; I read incessantly. But I did\nnot live. The life of my soul was sometimes in the past, chiefly in\nthe future, in the present not at all. By deliberate endeavour I made\nthe present even less than it would have been, by encouraging myself\nto experience no emotion except in my dreamings, to take no interest\nin the small daily happenings (they were very small) of my Villebecq\ndaily life, to remember that for me Life would begin at the moment when\nVision and Reality became one. Till then the years were wasting. Time\nmarked time. (Perhaps the real horror of Eternity--Time marking time\nfor ever, with no Love beyond?)\n\nIn her reply to my birthday-letter Aunt Martha had omitted any\nreference to Robbie. It was a cruel disappointment. Probably she knew\nnothing, or had ignored or forgotten my query, thinking the postscript\nmerely the casual after-thought it pretended to be, hardly calling\nfor answer? Or perhaps, in a moment of intuition, such as might come\neven to Aunt Martha once in a way, she had divined the truth, and had\ndeliberately omitted to reply?\n\nAfter a while, the longing to get on the track of Robbie's this-world\nwhereabouts--to hasten his Second Coming--became unbearable, and on\nChristmas Day 1869, being the Tenth Anniversary, I wrote to Aunt Martha\nagain. I made the most of \"A Happy New Year,\" and of the anxiety which\nI had for some months been beginning to feel as to my Grandmother's\nhealth and as to whether I ought not soon to be coming back to\nDevonshire once for all. Again, with beating heart, I penned the\ncarefully thought-out afterthought. \"By-the-way, I fancy I asked you\nonce before, tho' can't remember your telling me anything on the point.\nDo you ever have news of Robert Grove who lived with you ten years\nago, when I did? I sometimes think about him--he was a nice boy--and\nsometimes wonder where he is or what he may be doing?\"\n\nWas it by malice or accident that she consigned her barren response to\nthe cry of my aching heart to a P.S. also? \"You ask about Robert Grove:\nI have heard nothing of him for years. He must be a young man of 21\nnow.\"\n\nWretched woman! Well, I could wait no longer, I would go home and find\nhim for myself. The main news in Aunt Martha's letter urged me to a\nlike resolve:--\"Mother and Aunt,\" she said, \"are both ageing. Although\nMother would never let you know it herself; also for fear of bringing\nto an end your life abroad, which she knows has been abundantly blessed\nto you--yet I know she would like you back.\"\n\nI made up my mind at once--need for Robbie made the duty-call to my\nGrandmother's side clear and insistent--and told the weeping Countess\nwithin the hour.\n\n\nThough her health was no better, Elise de Florian had at last decided\nto come home. When I wrote and told her I was returning to England, she\nreplied that she would forward her plans and come back to Normandy at\nonce. For the first few months after her departure she had ignored my\nexistence except for formal courtesies in her infrequent letters to her\nmother. Then, suddenly, she had begun to write, and soon the letters\nwere as friendly, as unhappy, and as passionate as the long talks in\nthe old days together. I forgave her before I was half-way through the\nfirst letter, and had for some time been doing battle with Pride as to\nwhether I should tell her how much I wanted to see her again.\n\nShe returned with Gabrielle one bitter January morning. I kissed her\nblue-pale forehead, and, as I gazed at the drawn ever-unloved face,\nfelt for a moment bitterly ashamed of Love's triumphant futures that I\nhoped to garner in my own heart. That night I prayed God in His mercy\nto send her what her heart cried out for, knowing all the while that\nsomehow God Himself could not grant my petition. I knew--understood\nphysically--that Elise was a woman damned into the world to excite no\nsupreme love in any heart; knew that if I were a man I could not love\nher, knew that God had given her life without power to win the one good\nthis life can give.\n\nNext morning she was too frail to rise. At first we were hopeful,\nand put everything down to the fatigues of the long journey. As day\nsucceeded day, however, and she was each day wearier, neither we nor\nshe could elude the truth the doctor was whispering: that Mademoiselle\nwas in the last and rapid stages of a decline.\n\nOne night I was lying in bed reading by candle-light. The door softly\nopened. My heart stopped. She stood there in a long white night-gown,\ntrembling in the cold air, bare-footed, ghastly pale. There was\nsomething in the eyes that awed me.\n\n\"I am dying now,\" she said. Her voice was low, melodious, and as though\nfrom far-away; from another place, another body, another soul. \"Some\none must kiss me once--love me once, properly, before I go. Will you,\nMary?\"\n\nI had jumped out of bed. I wrapped my dressing-gown round her, and\nsupporting her cold and tottering body led her back to her own room,\nand comforting her all the while got her back into bed, and slipped\ndown gently beside her.\n\nI pressed her tenderly to me and told her a dozen foolish times that\nshe would soon be better.\n\n\"No\"--she spoke in English as I did--\"it is over. I wish it had been\nover long ago. I had a heart that could have loved the world, but no\none loved me in return. I shall die a good Catholic, but religion has\nnever given me comfort--never what it has given you. I loved my little\nsister: but it was all one-sided, and that is not Love at all. Love is\nwhen the getting and the giving are equal, when the two bodies change\nsouls. There is only love. Poor little Suzanne, she could not help it.\nI could never have seen in her eyes what I longed for her to see in\nmine. Oh, the need for some one to love me; sometimes my poor heart\ncould have burst. I was not wanted in the world. I was--not--wanted.\"\n\nThe sentences came oddly, disjointedly, further and further apart.\n\nFor some moments she had not spoken. Then, suddenly, her arms tightened\nround me in supreme yearning; she placed her lips hard upon mine in an\nembrace of ultimate passionate sadness; her body trembled violently,\nand then, in a swift second, was still.\n\nThe lips were cold. My arms were round a corpse. I freed myself, got\nup, lit a candle.\n\nThe old misery had for ever left her eyes, which were happy, and full\nof love. I closed them reverently, kissed each lid as I closed it, and\nwent out to awaken the household.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX: END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER'S\n\n\nImmediately after the funeral, I left the desolate Ch\u00e2teau, the\ndesolate Countess, the country of France soon to be made desolate, and,\nafter nearly four years' absence, returned to my native land.\n\nOn Southampton Quay Lord Tawborough awaited me.\n\nI saw him from the boat before I landed, and he saw me. I braved\nmyself for the greeting: I would be pleasant, natural, would look him\nfrankly in the eyes. I came down the little landing-bridge, we shook\nhands, for one half-instant of time I looked into his eyes; then\nself-consciousness and joy rolled through me like a tide, my heart beat\nunreasonably, I forgot who or where I was. When I got over the worst\nof it, I was conscious of how foolish I had been, and I flushed to\nthink what he might be thinking. I still dared not look. He was busying\nhimself with my luggage. We got into a cab, into a train....\n\nIf it was not love that filled me, what was it? If it was not love\nthat I had seen for that swift second in his eyes, what was its name?\nOr was I once more judging others by my romantic self-conscious self,\nlending them looks and emotions they had never sought to borrow? Yet\nhad he made this journey to Southampton for cousinship's sake, or\nthrough courtesy to my Grandmother, or for my mother's sake--or for\nany sake but mine? I knew that he had not. Then I must tell him I was\n\"another's.\" How--without absurdity, immodesty? For I did not know, by\nany solid sign or certain token, that he loved me at all. He sat in\nthe corner of the carriage reading his newspaper. I sat in my corner\nreading mine--the first English newspaper I had ever touched.\n\nIt was the last stage of our journey; we had changed at Exeter on to\nthe North Devon line. He suddenly threw his newspaper aside and looked\nme bravely in the face, though he could not completely master his\ntrembling eyes.\n\n\"Well, Miss Traies\" (my name since my twenty-first birthday, when the\nlawyers had slain Miss Lee), \"what are your plans? What are you going\nto do with your life? What is the program?\" Would-be banteringly.\n\n\"You know,\" I replied. \"I am coming home to help and look after my\nGrandmother and my Great-Aunt.\"\n\n\"They are old.\"\n\n\"So will you be one day.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I am old already. Do not mock at my poor grey hairs! But I\nwonder if I want to wait until I am as old as your Great-Aunt for some\none to look after me. Young men want looking after, Miss Traies, as\nwell as old women. Old age is lonely, but youth is lonelier. Perhaps\nthere are younger folk than your good Grandmother and Great-Aunt whom\nyou could help. There are men in the world too.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I said, realizing that in speaking aloud of my love of Robbie\nfor the first time in all the years I should be doing the kindest thing\nto my dear friend the Stranger, and should at the same time be bringing\nthat love magically nearer reality. For if I spoke of him, he was real:\nto utter his name to another human being made him suddenly part of this\nvisible world. From this uttering of his name to meeting him was but a\nmatter of hours--days. Devon was a little place: green fields and red\nloam flashed quickly past: as I spoke of him I saw him coming nearer.\n\"I know--maybe there _is_ a man in the world I shall help--help him for\nall his life.\"\n\nI could not look.\n\n\"Do I know him?\" he asked. His voice was odd, toneless: steadied by\nsupernatural effort: nearest despair, though still caressing hope.\n\n\"No,\" I replied shortly.\n\nIn the silence that followed I could see nothing, think nothing; hear\nnothing but my own negation ringing in my ears, harsher and more brutal\nas each second passed.\n\nMy cruelty filled me with exquisite pity: the insolent eternal offering\nfrom the soul that is not suffering to the soul that is. Poor heart,\nit could not be! My eyes were my chief difficulty: but the carriage\nwindow held resources. He went back to his _Times_.\n\n\nOdd, crowding sensations overcame me as the train drew up in Tawborough\nstation, the same to which, once upon a time, Satan Had Come--and\nthe North Devon odour (western, immemorial, unmistakable: the smell\nof broad tidal rivers that are the sea, yet not the sea) filled\nmy nostrils. We drove across the bridge: for the first moment the\nbright town spread out before me across the river wore the cardboard\nstrangeness of a foreign land. There was an almost imperceptible\ninstant of confusion, while my senses adjusted themselves to the\nchanged physical world, and then the buildings around me--we had\ncrossed the bridge by now--seemed normal, inevitable; and France was a\ndream I had to struggle to remember.\n\nThe same odd moment of physically-felt spiritual adjustment was\nrepeated at the house, where my Grandmother stood at the gate of Number\nEight to greet me. It was not so much that she was frailer, thinner,\nolder, it was that she was a different person, or rather that the I\nwho now beheld her was a different person from the I who had known her\nbefore, and to the new me she was a new creature. As I kissed her the\nyears rolled back, my own self changed, and she was Grandmother of old.\n\nInside the house the strangeness and the same return were again\nrepeated, this time less perceptibly. On the morrow I went very slowly\nover the whole house, remaining for some time in each room and staring\nat every corner and every article of furniture, while I summoned back\nto me all the ancient happenings that connected me with each. Here was\nAunt Jael's front parlour, a little yellower, a little darker, a little\ndingier than of old. There on the floor by the window was the row of\ndismal etiolated plants, each in its earth-begrimed saucer. There was\nher bluebeard cupboard; I opened it, and a smell of decayed fruits and\nstale sweetmeats escaped; probably no one had been near it for months.\nThere was a jar of ginger, and a French-plum jar. I got as far as\nhandling the lids, but no further: what new flaming letters might not\nbe writ within? Besides, the plums were probably bad, while I never\n_really_ cared for ginger. There too was the door that once had opened,\nthrough which a face of nameless horror once had peeped. There was Lord\nBenamuckee.\n\nHere was the dining-room, with horsehair furniture and Axminster\ncarpet perhaps shabbier than I remembered them, this room which all\nthrough my childhood, even too through my year in France, and in all\nmy life since, has always,--in those moments when I behold myself from\noutside, when my soul flies away from my body and looks down upon it\nfrom afar--been the visual setting and earthly ambience of Mary. Here\nwas the kitchen where Mrs. Cheese had lived, where Robinson Crewjoe\nhad stealthily been born, where my love for scrubbing floors had for\never died. Here was the blue attic, cold, barren, airless; heavy with\nmemories--of misery and cruelty and tears.\n\nAfter a few nights' dreams in my old bedroom--confused visions of the\nCh\u00e2teau and Fouquier and Elise and Napoleon--the four years of France\nbecame literally no more than a dream in my memory. I remembered them\nrather from the morning's impressions of these nightly visions than\nfrom the actual happenings themselves. If indeed they were actual\nhappenings. For frequently I could not be sure, and would fancy that\nall the complex visions of the life in France had come to me in sleep:\nuntil Calendar and Common-Sense convinced me.\n\nAunt Jael seemed to share my illusions. She would ask me sometimes\nwhere I had been, and rail at me for \"stopping out\" so long, treating\nmy absence as one of hours rather than years. Never, at any rate after\nthe first day or two, did she treat me as though my life at Bear Lawn\nhad been anything but continuous. I treated her likewise, swiftly\nforgetting the first moment of contact when (as with my Grandmother)\nshe had seemed to me so much smaller, swarthier, dryer, older than in\nmy memory: a stranger who immediately, imperceptibly, became familiar\nonce again. She rarely got out of bed now, and her voice was huskier\nand less authoritative than of old. But she cursed and railed and\nthreatened almost as bravely as ever. I alone had really changed, and\nwondered sometimes at the earlier Mary who had taken this bad old\nwoman's imprecations so bitterly to heart. My new heart was too full of\nthe hopes of love to feed on the broodings of hate. Moreover, though\nthe faithful thorned stick lay on the coverlet ready to hand for use\nit never struck out at me now, and the poor villainous veteran saw no\nservice reminiscent of his ancient glory save floor-thumpings to summon\nmeals--or Mary. I neither feared her nor hated her. I pitied her.\n\nSome weeks before, Mrs. Cheese had been taken ill and had gone back to\nher friends in the country. About the same time Aunt Jael had taken\npermanently to her bed, and my Grandmother, who was herself rapidly\nfailing, had had to attend to her sister and do the household work.\nSister Briggs came to help in the kitchen in the mornings, and Simeon\nGreeber charitably allowed Aunt Martha to come over for the day on one\nor two occasions; but the two old women--the two dying old women--were\nvirtually alone in the big house, with my Grandmother, probably the\nweaker of the two, struggling against pain, and against the fatigue\nwhich marks the journey's end, to keep on her feet for her sister's\nsake. I realized how selfish I had been not to have come sooner: except\nthat in France another old woman had needed me almost as much.\n\n\"I'm glad 'eo've come, my dearie,\" said my Grandmother on the night\nof my return. \"God has dealt very lovingly with me; but I am full of\nyears, and 'tis time for me to go. I have finished the work He gave\nme to do. I was waiting for 'ee to come back, my dearie: now I can go\nHome.\"\n\nI was sobbing.\n\n\"Don't 'ee,\" she reproved gently. \"There is no place for sorrow. Heaven\nis near, and the peace of God which passeth all understanding.\"\n\nOne strange day I remember: the last valiant effort of Aunt Jael to\nrevive the splendour of her stark imperial days. Glory and Salvation\nwere old and frail now, especially Glory, and for a year and more, the\nEmpress' famous Tuesdays had been abandoned.\n\n\"There'll be a last one,\" declared Aunt Jael, and one Tuesday morning\nwhen she felt stronger than usual, decreed a Final Feast. After dinner,\nwhich in the regular way I had taken to her in her bed, I helped her\nto dress, and got her down into the old armchair. Then, as bidden,\nI sallied forth, hired a cab, drove to Brother Brawn's (robing-house\nfor Jordan) upon the Quay, and after infinite delay, while Glory made\nminutest traditional preparations with goat's milk, rusks and bags,\nhaled those two mad old Christian women to Number Eight.\n\n\"Our last foregathering on earth,\" chuckled my Great-Aunt brightly\nthroughout the afternoon.\n\nDeath was discussed till tea-time: with dogmatic satisfaction by Aunt\nJael, with vulgar self-assurance by Salvation, with mystical hope by\nGlory, with reverent delight by my Grandmother.\n\n\"Though Death, mind 'ee, is a pain,\" said Salvation; wagging her head\nsagely.\n\n\"Nay, 'tis a portal,\" corrected Glory.\n\n\"Yes,\" said my Grandmother, \"a portal to the Life Everlasting.\"\n\nThe Life Everlasting. _Yet I looked and saw joy in the four old faces._\n\nGlory was absolved her corner penitence for this Last Tea, and the five\nof us sat down when I had laid the table and got the meal ready.\n\nImmediately a row began. Now saying grace was a strictly regulated\ndetail of the Tuesday ritual. Decades of dispute had not enabled Aunt\nJael to oust my Grandmother from an equal share in this privilege in\nour ordinary daily life alone, and a compromise had obtained through\nall the years I remember whereby Aunt Jael asked the blessing before\nbreakfast and dinner, and Grandmother before tea and supper. But on\nTuesdays, with two guests to be reckoned with, both of whom were as\neager in pre-prandial \"testimony\" as their hostesses, the position was\nmore complicated. Though sometimes challenged, the rule of taking turns\nTuesday by Tuesday in saying grace, had gradually become established: a\nchildish and democratic arrangement which can have been little to Aunt\nJael's taste, but which, despite occasional bickerings, was accepted as\nearly as I can remember.\n\nIt was for the privilege of asking the blessing at this Last Tea, this\nultimate spread, that the dispute now arose. Grandmother and Glory\ntook no part, but Aunt Jael and Salvation each swore it was her turn.\n\n\"We'll all ask a blessing,\" finally proposed my Grandmother. The\nsuggestion was accepted, and in turn the Four Graces were solemnly\ndeclaimed.\n\nAunt Jael (stentorian, staccato):\n\n\"Oh Lord. Thou hast promised grace and glory to Thy Saints. Oh Lord.\nChange these husks to the fruitful meats of the spirit before our\neyes. Support our footsteps to the Table of Thy bounties spread in the\nwilderness; where true believers may feast among the bones of those who\nsought Thee to their own destruction. Aymen.\"\n\nMy Grandmother (in a whisper, soft, sibilant):\n\n\"Behold us, O Lord of seedtime and harvest, set free from earthly\ncare for a season that we may dwell on the bounties which Thy hand\nhas provided. Thou preparest a table before us in the presence of our\nenemies (sic). Thy dear mercies now spread before us are many: sanctify\nthem, we beg Thee, to our use, and us to Thy service. Make us ever\ngrateful, and nourish us with the meat of Thy Word. For Jee-sus' sake.\"\n\nSalvation (noisily; with sticky report, sound of spoon in treacle-jar\nsharply withdrawn):\n\n\"For what us are about to receive, may the Laur make we trewly\nthankful.\"\n\nGlory (gauntly):\n\n\"Bless er-er-er these er-er-er meats!\"\n\nAnd we set to.\n\n\nGrandmother prayed with me continually. She was too old to kneel.\nPropped up on her pillows, she would take my head upon her heart as\nI half-lay half-leant upon her bed. My vanity, my worldliness, my\nimperilled soul were the unvarying theme.\n\nOne night she stopped sharply in the middle of her prayer.\n\n\"Your soul, my dear, is not praying with me. The Lord tells me that\nat this moment your mind is on fleshly things. Look at the eyes of\n'ee! You're hankering after earthly glory, after high station in this\nworldly life.\"\n\nThen, after a moment's pause, shrewdly: \"Has any one ever proposed to\n'ee to give 'ee another station in life?\"\n\n\"No. What do you mean, Grandmother? Who?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Maybe no one.\" And she resumed her prayer.\n\nI was more careful in pretending to listen, but ceased to listen at\nall. I was trying--with the conscientious, artificially lashed-up\ndesperation of the egotistical soul that sees for a moment its own\nnakedness--to visualize what the Stranger's misery and hunger must be\nlike if by some wild chance (\"It is so,\" God shouted in my heart) he\nloved me, not as I loved him, but as I loved Robbie. Ah no, it could\nnot be. There is never a love like our own.\n\n\" ... Send her _Thy_ love. For _Jee_-sus' sake. Aymen.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL: END OF THREE VISIONS: NAPOLEON'S\n\n\nSoon Grandmother followed Aunt Jael, and took to her bed permanently.\nOne Lord's Day evening I helped her upstairs for the last time.\n\nMy life was now spent in the two bedrooms where my Great-Aunt and\nGrandmother lay, and in crossing the corridor from one to the other as\nAunt Jael's voice or my own sense of Grandmother's need alternatively\nsummoned me. In the one room I was chiefly cursed at, in the other\nprincipally prayed for.\n\nSister Briggs came in most days to give me help in the kitchen; even so\nI found it a heavy task to do the whole work of the big house and to\nfeed and mind and minister to two bedridden old women. But I preferred\nit to the heavy idleness of Villebecq: found waiting upon others more\nnatural, more agreeable, more self-righteously satisfactory, than being\nwaited upon. There was the pride of humility, the unctuous flattery of\nfatigue.\n\nI never went out of doors except to Market and (for Breaking of Bread\nonly) to Meeting. I had the lonely livelong day in which to work and\nto think of Robbie. Here I was back in Devon, the Devon where I had\nmet him, the Devon where he lived: was I any whit the nearer finding\nhim? My brain revolved in a futile circle of planlessness and hope: as\nusual, my imperial imagination failed cravenly when face to face with\nneed for practical endeavour. The only plan I could decide upon was to\nbroach the subject to Aunt Martha next time she should come over from\nTorribridge, to ask her brazenly for the address of the family in South\nDevon and the surname of Uncle Vivian, and then to write direct for\nnews of my Beloved. It was high time Aunt Martha came over again--she\nhad not been near her mother's bedside for a fortnight and more. When\nwould she come?\n\nMy only other interest during these days was in the tremendous drama\nbeing enacted in the country I had just left. Unknown to my Grandmother\nI took in the _Times_ newspaper daily, and had French ones specially\nsent to me. I followed every stage of the war and the political story\nwith a passion that seemed sometimes incongruous in this bare Christian\nEnglish house. What had Bear Lawn to do with this war?--or any other\nwar? (I forgot that it had been built for barracks in the other\nNapoleon's day; that maybe redcoats who had seen and smashed Boney had\nslept and sworn in each familiar room.)\n\n\"Shall I tell you anything about the war?\" I asked my Grandmother one\nevening. \"There is only one war,\" she replied, \"God's war with evil.\"\n\nI was so infinitely more interested in persons than things, in the\nplayers than in the play, that never at any stage of these events\nacross the Channel did I much reflect on their mighty political\nsignificance: how the Ruler of Europe who, through centuries, had\nlived in Paris, would live from this time onwards in Berlin; or how,\ntogether with the sword the last French Emperor handed to the first\nGerman Emperor at Sedan, he was handing also the secular leadership\nof civilization. I could only think of the hunch-shouldered suffering\nwretch who proffered the sword.\n\nHis lady, too, was an object-lesson for would-be empresses. Though if\nher fate was unambiguous, as the Lord's lessons are, the fashion in\nwhich she faced it was more doubtful, as History is. Some accounts\nspoke of her bravery: how calm and queenly she was while the savage\nmob in the Tuileries garden shrieked \"Dethronement!\" and would have\ntorn her limb from limb--others of her cowardice: how cravenly she\nscuttled away at the first approach of realities, where a Maria Theresa\nwould have driven hardily through the streets and by courage effected\na revulsion of the people's feeling. Her Good-bye, how touching!--the\nlast sad glance at the well-loved rooms in which for seventeen imperial\nyears she had reigned, the thought for others, the dignified tears,\nthe bitter \"In France no one has the right to be unfortunate!\" wrung\nfrom her anguished soul--_or_--the stealthy selfish escape under the\nprotection of foreigners, the abandonment of others, the skulking\nanxiety for her own skin only, the well-filled purse. The candid\nselfishness: \"Do not think of me, think only of France\"--_or_--the\nuneasy self-righteousness: \"Have I not done my duty to the end?\"\n\"Yes, Madam\": \"I am on your arm\" (to the Italian Ambassador): \"Am I\ntrembling?\" \"No, Madam, you are not trembling.\" \"What more could I have\ndone?\": \"Nothing, Madam.\"\n\nHow loving a wife she had been in the dark preceding weeks! In an agony\nof fear for her beloved husband's life if he should return to Paris,\nhow she had sent him hourly telegrams, messages of aching anxiety and\nforethought and tenderness, to dissuade him from the project,--_or_--to\nkeep him away from the Capital at all costs, since his return would\nput an end to her power, her Regency, the wreaking of her spites and\nvendettas, her even darker ambitions. How many hours of unrecorded\nprayer had she not spent with God!--praying for the sweet Emperor's\nsafety--_or_--for the stray bullet that would achieve her ends.\n\nFrance was ungrateful, France who had paid for her food and her\nfollies for seventeen squandering years. And the journals were\nindiscriminating, to print such varying tales. And events were unkind,\nto give the poor later historian so embarrassing a choice between black\nand white and every colour between. But Fate was just, to turn his\nwheel abruptly against this over-fortunate woman; or unjust, maybe, to\nvisit with spite so calamitous one who was no eviller or vainer than\nalmost any other woman of us would have been in her place--no worse\nthan _you_, Mary Lee.\n\nNo worse than me: granted. But in what way different from me, then, to\nhave deserved those incomparable years? Ah, well, she would pay for\nthem now: God gets even.\n\nThe place of pity is where Fate turns upon a nobler soul. I suffered\nwith this gentle unscrupulous Man who had woo'd Ambition through the\nlast dismal stages on the road where Ambition ends. A Bonaparte at\nthe back of his armies, slinking from defeat to defeat. Bodily pain\nso monstrous that it could only be borne with the help of morphia\ninjected every few hours by the sombre-faced young doctor who did duty\nfor glittering aide-de-camp. A rudderless wretch, dragged at the heels\nof \"his\" army like so much tawdry baggage, a crowned camp-follower, a\ncommander without a command; flaunted by his officers, mocked by his\nsoldiers, cajoled, disowned and threatened by his wife; not daring\nto return to his capital, not daring to show himself to his troops:\nshrinking back in the gorgeous Imperial carriage from the hisses of the\ntownspeople in the cities of France he was abandoning to the foe, and\nthe lewd and horrible insults of the troops. A hunchback haggard doll.\n\nFor Sedan he rouged himself. Why not? The play had lasted for eighteen\nyears, and the hollow cheeks needed new cosmetics for the final scene.\nHe quitted the stage with excruciating agony of soul and body, with\npainted dignity, with eternal inseparable calm. Nothing in his reign\nbecame him like the leaving it.\n\nVanity seeks ambition, and the end of ambition is Vanity. There is only\nlove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI: END OF THREE VISIONS: MINE\n\n\nBefore writing to Aunt Martha I waited for the moment in my aged\nkinswomen's increasing weakness when Conscience told me it was for\ntheir sakes only I was summoning her, and not for my own.\n\nIt was the second night after she had come. The hour was late, as\nGrandmother and Aunt Jael had been long in getting to sleep. Aunt\nMartha and I were sitting down to a bite of supper in the lamp-lit\ndining-room. All day I had been praying for boldness of heart and\nsteadiness of voice that I might ask her my question. I stared now\nat her listless faded face. I was already moistening my lips for my\nintroductory \"I say, Aunt Martha--\" or \"By the way--.\"\n\nTelepathy is true, or Coincidence longer-armed than Fate. I had not\nspoken the words; she took them out of my mouth.\n\n\"Oh, young Robert Grove: I forgot. Simeon heard he was dead--died nine\nyears ago, I believe. Poor young fellow, how soon gone! How one longs\nto know that all was well with him before he died--.\"\n\nI sat, staring.\n\nFor moments maybe. For Eternity perhaps. I do not know.\n\nMy heart was cold, my brain numb. My body and mind were gripped as in\na vice; I could not move my head to one side or the other, I could not\nremove my unseeing eyes from a fixed point in emptiness straight before\nme; my brain could not work, could seek no details of where or when\nor why, could not move from one cramped corner of agony, in which it\nmust listen ceaselessly to a far-away voice repeating \"Robbie is dead.\nRobbie is dead. Robbie is dead.\"\n\nI was nearly unconscious: there was no me left to be conscious. As\nin a dream I remember Aunt Martha being kind, being fussy, pleading,\nadvising, exhorting, appealing. I would not, could not move. I sat\nin the same chair, in the same posture, staring, staring at nothing;\nspeaking, speaking to no one. \"Robbie is dead. Robbie is dead.\"\n\nAfter a while Aunt Martha seemed to have gone. The lamp was still\nburning. Very slowly, through the hours of that eternal night, the\nmeaning of what had happened entered my heart; broke my heart.\n\nGrey morning light was entering the room. I got up from the chair,\nstiff and cramped after my long unmoving vigil, went up to my bedroom,\ndiscovered my diary in its secret haunt, brought the _Times_-wrapped\nexercise-book downstairs again with me, blew out the lamp, and in the\ndim light of the autumn dawn, sat down amid the uncleared supper things\nto pen my last entry:--\n\n\n    \"I am writing this at five o'clock on Lord's Day morning at the\n    most miserable moment of my life. I have been up all night. I\n    have not slept. I don't know how it happened: unless God, in His\n    cruelty, heard the unspoken question in my heart and answered\n    it through Aunt Martha's witless mouth. 'Oh, young Robert' she\n    began--my heart stopped beating--'I forgot'! I could not have\n    guessed what was coming, have guessed that his presence all these\n    years was a lie, a vanity of my own creating. _Dead._ It was\n    so terrible that I could not feel it soon, did not understand\n    for a long time what it meant. My heart was broken; but did not\n    understand. It is here, alone in the long night, that I have found\n    out what it is. I can hardly see to write for my tears. What I\n    feel, I cannot write. It is the cruellest thing (save creating me)\n    that God has done to me; God who damned me into the world, hated,\n    loveless. I have lived a life such as few girls--cowering, haunted,\n    passionate; utterly unloving, unloved utterly. Then I loved this\n    dark-haired boy on that Christmas Night when--more surely even than\n    on Thy Jordan morning with me, O Lord God!--in tears and happiness\n    I was BORN AGAIN. And ever since, in endless vision, with my soul\n    and brain and body, I have been faint with loving him, and memory\n    has kindled hope and hope excelled memory, and I have thanked the\n    Lord God even for His nameless gift of immortality,--for it would\n    be immortality with Robbie. God, I thought, had paid me for the\n    unhappiness in which He had created me: He had given me Robbie.\n    Year after year his heart was with me. I was gladder and more\n    radiant than the ordinary happy woman could be. My heart sang aloud\n    with my love.\n\n    \"And now it is gone. It burns my heart as salt tears are burning my\n    lashes. I understand. Love was never meant for me. I was conceived\n    in hate. I shall die in hate. God gave me the wildest-loving soul\n    He could fashion, and I kept it for my dear one only. And now my\n    beloved is gone, gone to his long home, and the light is gone out\n    of my life. For him there is no immortality: immortality is only\n    for the damned. Sorrow is older than laughter, and sorrow alone\n    lives. My lovely boy is dead for ever; I thank God only for this,\n    that he has spared him Eternity. And I, who loved him, must\n    live on for ever alone: alone through all the merciless eternal\n    years--oh, Christ Jesus on the Cross, strike me dead now, abolish\n    the universe, abolish Thyself--ah Robbie, Robbie, come back.\n\n    \"No, it is no good. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to\n    mourn, and a time to dance. For me it shall be weeping-time and\n    mourning-time for ever. Joy and laughter are for other folk. I\n    shall go, as I knew I must, the way of all my people, the way of\n    bitterness and loneliness, the way of my Mother. (Mother dear, will\n    God strive to keep us apart in Eternity?) I shall find no happiness\n    under the sun; nor in heaven--nor hell--afterwards. The visions of\n    the past can comfort me no more; for they were but phantoms of my\n    own creating. This past year when night after night he has come to\n    my body and soul, it was not he who came at all--his bright body\n    was rotting in the grave (where? since when?)--but a cruel sham\n    of Christ's, a silly clockwork presence born of my own love and\n    hunger, a cowardly trick God played upon me.\n\n    \"My beloved, there is Eternity and the grave between us. I cannot,\n    dare not, conjure up your vision. In memory only, I will go back\n    once, for the last time, to Christmas of long ago, feel your gentle\n    dead arms around me, and kiss you Good-night and Good-bye.\n\n    MARY LEE.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII: TWIN DEATHBEDS\n\n\nGrandmother and Aunt Jael were failing every hour. On the afternoon of\nthe morrow of my misery old Doctor le Mesurier took me aside--I was the\nmistress now--and told me that for both of them it was only a matter of\ndays.\n\n\"Which will be the first?\" I asked him, between tears.\n\n\"I should not like to say.\"\n\n\"'Tis a close race, my dearie,\" was the way my Grandmother put it when,\na few minutes later, I went upstairs to cry my heart out by her side:\n\"a close race to glory, and the odds are even.\"\n\nShe smiled, with a tender frivolity that was new to me. New too was\nthis form and manner of speech.\n\nBoth she and Aunt Jael knew that the end was near. I got a nurse the\nsame evening, who took turns with me throughout the night, crossing\nfrom one bedroom to the other. I could not forget my own grief, but\nhad little time to remember it. I was so dead-tired when I got to my\nbed that, almost for the first time in my life, there was no long\nwaking-time: the breeding-time of misery and fear.\n\nAunt Jael developed jaundice, also a bronchial cough. She was soon too\nweak and suffering to be her own unpleasant self. The Devil, however,\nas late as four days before the end, made a last desperate struggle\nfor the soul that had so long been His. It was one evening; I had\nbrought the last beef-tea for the night, changed the hot-water jar,\nstraightened her pillows and put everything right. Suddenly, without\nwarning, she dashed the cup, full of the steaming liquid, into my face,\nwhich it cut and scalded; screaming the while like a mad thing. She was\na vile, a repulsive sight. With her toothless hairy face distorted with\nrage, foul also with the dark-yellowish taint of the jaundice; with\nher beady black eyes gleaming savagely, her immense nose, her crested\nnightcap, she looked like some obscene monster, half-bird, half-witch.\nShe clutched the ancient stick, slashed out at me savagely-feebly;\nher failure to hurt me bringing her to the last livid agony of rage.\nShe screamed, grimaced, dribbled: \"Ingrate, minx, harlot--oh, I'll\nkill 'ee, you and yer wicked idle Grandmother. I'll--.\" She was cut\nshort by a fit of violent coughing. She lay back sweating with pain,\nalmost unconscious with hate, her face too loathsome to behold. She was\npossessed of the Devil.\n\nDrawn by the noise, the nurse came hurriedly from my Grandmother's\nroom. But already Satan was cast out; now she was sobbing, grunting,\nwailing, in a maudlin pitiful way. For a moment our eyes met. I saw\nshame there, and my heart quickened towards her. \"Never mind, Aunt. You\nhad a nightmare. It is over now.\"\n\nIn the opposite bedroom, the end drew gentlier near. In her less\npainful hours, my Grandmother was livelier than I had ever known her.\nWith the scent of Death's nostrils in the room, she grew skittish, gay,\nworldly. She gave me droll winks and knowing smiles, as she recounted\npranks of eighty years ago: mighty jam-stealing forays, ginger\n_battues_, historic bell-ringing expeditions; tremendous truantries,\ntwelve-year-old amours.\n\n\"Grandmother,\" I said gravely (I was the godly parent now and she\nthe child) \"you've waited a long time to tell me this!\" For a moment\ngenuine priggery, and sour remembrance of the blows meted out for my\nown lean escapades, hindered my joining in her brazen glee. Then we\nlaughed together till we cried.\n\n\"Ah, they were happy days,\" she said, wiping her eyes. \"My unsaved\ndays,\" she added, the holy familiar tone coming into her voice, \"the\ndays before I found the Lord.\"\n\nThen she fell to talking of the Faith, and for the first and last time\nin her life spoke critically of the ways of the Lord's People.\n\n\"They do too much for them that are saved already, and too little\nto bring in them that are lost. 'Tain't the Lord's precept at all.\n'Remember the ninety-and-nine.'\"\n\nAs in everything, my Grandmother was right. Apart from the Foreign\nField, our people make small stir to rescue the perishing. That, they\nfeel, is not the business of religion: which is not so much to reclaim\nsinners as to edify saints, not to fight the Devil but to worship God.\nThus they are in sharpest contrast with the later nineteenth-century\nevangelism, with its hordes of professional missioners--mountebanks,\ngipsies, Jews--its Transatlantic sensationalism and sentimentalism,\nits hysterical appeals to the spiritual egotism of the individual, its\nsinner hunts, its spectacular war with Satan.\n\nThough they are not always free from the danger of spiritual pride,\nit may at least be said of our people that they worship the Lord in\na quieter holier way, that they practise the fast-vanishing art of\npersonal religion. Yet my Grandmother was right: \"It is the sinners\nthat Christ came to save. 'Remember the ninety-and-nine!'\"\n\n\nOne morning I found Aunt Jael greatly changed. Her eyes were gentler\nthan ever before, her face more peaceful.\n\nI could see she had been waiting for me.\n\n\"Child,\" she said quickly, \"is your Grandmother awake?\" Her voice was\nsoft.\n\n\"I haven't been in yet. I always come to you first. The nurse is with\nher.\"\n\n\"Go and see. I must speak to her.\"\n\n\"Speak to her, Aunt? You mean you want me to give her a message.\"\n\n\"No, Child. I must speak to her with my own voice. Go first and find\nwhether she is awake.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I reported.\n\n\"Now then. Open the door wide. Yes--now put that chair against it,\nso it can't swing to. Now go and do likewise with your Grandmother's\ndoor. First move me right to the edge of the bed--thank 'ee! There!\" I\npropped her up amid her pillows.\n\nThen with Grandmother and her door I did the same. (The nurse was\ndownstairs.)\n\nThough the two old women could not see each other, despite the width of\nthe passage their faces cannot have been more than seven yards apart.\nGrandmother's deafness had increased with her years, but today, helped\nout now and then with a word from me, she heard everything. I stood\njust inside Grandmother's room, watching her face, and listening to\nAunt Jael, whose voice was calm and clear.\n\n\"Can you hear me, Hannah?\"\n\n\"Yes, Jael.\"\n\n\"Well, sister, I haven't many hours to go. The Lord is calling, but\nI've this to say to 'ee first. These eighty years we've been together\nI've been a hard sister to 'ee. These eighty years I've been a sinner.\n'Ee 've been a loving forgiving woman, and I've been a bad and selfish\none: full o' pride and wickedness. Before I go, I want to hear 'ee with\nyour own lips say as 'ee forgive me, as maybe the Lord in His mercy\nwill too--\"\n\nA fit of coughing cut her short. Her pride she had torn into shreds.\nGrandmother was sobbing with joy.\n\n\"Don't 'ee talk so, my dear! I've nothing to forgive 'ee.\"\n\n\"Hannah woman, 'tis not so. Come, oh say 'ee forgive me.\" The old woman\nwas eager, desperate: pleading against time, against Eternity.\n\n\"I forgive 'ee,\" said my Grandmother.\n\nThe same evening Aunt Jael died in her sleep. The face was not ugly in\ndeath; the mouth was still hard and proud, but the eyes were serene.\n\nShe won the glory-race by just seven days. After this brief space of\ntime--the same span as between my birth and my mother's death--my\nGrandmother followed.\n\nIt was the day after Aunt Jael's funeral. Towards the end she called\nme Rachel. At the very last she sat up in bed, gazed at me with a\ntenderness already radiant with the glory of the City of Heaven.\n\n\"I'm journeying away, Rachel,--up yonder. Mary is there. Can't 'ee see\nher, Rachel? What is the veil between 'ee?--I can see 'ee both. Look!\nThere is New Jerusalem. The King in His Glory. Her words. Come--\"\n\nShe fell back. I caught her in my arms. My soul could not follow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII: ONE LONG PRERCESSION O' DEATHBEDS\n\n\nAbout this time, indeed, persons in the play of Mary Lee were dying\nHamletwise. One after another, swiftly, bodies were being trundled off\nthe stage.\n\n\nAunt Jael's leadership of the Seven Old Maids of Tawborough was\nmaintained in death. It was edifying to note that just as sixty years\nago they had briskly emulated her Conversion, now with equal alacrity\nthey followed her to her Home above.\n\nWithin three months Miss Glory Clinker departed. One February morning\nshe went away; wide-eyed, stuttering, triumphant. I heard her last\nwords. \"The night is far spent, the day is at hand--er-er-er.\" Her eyes\nlit up; a beatific happiness brightened the kind foolish old face.\n\"Er-er-er--.\" She was stammering before the Throne.\n\nOf the Seven, Salvation alone survived for long: till her one hundred\nand fourth year, a few years only before the time at which I write,\nalmost into the new century that is at hand. Her last words were\nincoherent. I could not catch them, though I tried to.\n\n\nPentecost Dodderidge outlived his most famous convert by seven months\nonly. He was in his one hundredth year. A stroke of paralysis came\nsuddenly, followed by a restless ten days, in which he suffered intense\npain and displayed eternal patience, and which he filled with edifying\nepigrams and godly saws and instances, all reverently collected by the\nfaithful ones around his bed and embodied in his _Choice Sayings_.\n(The volume is before me as I write.) As the last saved soul to whom\nhe had stood Baptist, and as the grand-niece and grandchild of \"those\ntwo eminent bright jewels in our Saviour's crown,\" I was specially in\nrequest at the old man's bedside. His last words, spoken clearly and\nsolemnly, with all the actor-like sincerity of his greatest days, were\nthese, each utterance coming a clear moment or two after the other:\n\n\"Peace within and rest.\"\n\n\"I have peace with God.\"\n\n\"The Peace of God which passeth all understanding--\"\n\nThis, his last utterance, was given at about a quarter past eight. Some\nforty minutes later he passed away: voyaging peacefully to Heaven.\n\n\nOf another death I knew only by hearsay. It was a Bonapartist intriguer\nwho, just before the dynasty's disaster, had ratted to the Republicans,\nand in the struggle with the Red Commune of Paris became a spy for\nthe Versaillais. I first saw the name and the bare fact in the French\nnewspapers, but a fuller story reached me in another way. Of the Grand\nRouquette, Red gaolers, a cage. A name on a list. One word at the\nfoot: Condemned. A yard, a high wall covered with vines and creepers.\nA May morning, six priests who died like heroes, filthy insults,\nlevelled rifles. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. _Fire!_ an explosion. A\ncurled-up corpse upon the ground.\n\n\nHis former employer lived a few years longer, keeping Death at bay\nby sheer fussiness. Her last gesture, Gabrielle wrote me, was a\ndeprecatory shrug of the shoulder; her last (recorded) utterance\n\"Enfin--\"\n\n\nIn another, an uglier death than any, the human creature gave way to\nthe passion of extreme sickening fear, to fawning appeals for God's\nmercy, to every last licence--except the use of the first person\nsingular. I stood outside; Aunt Martha would not let me enter the room\nfor very shame, though I peeped in once and saw the pale face livid\nwith fear, streaming with sweat, contorted with agony of body and soul.\n\n\"Forgive, Lord, forgive!\" he was whining, \"all has been done for Thy\nsake. One sees one's filthy sinfulness, one sees the error of one's\nways--\"\n\n\nNot in such cowardly supplication, but in arrogant prayer, prayer as\nto an equal, prayer to his young friend God, died a braver, wickeder\nold man. They found him kneeling against his bed: heart-failure, said\nthe doctor. His face was insolent, beautiful, serene. His soul had\nstrolled disdainfully into Heaven, as a gentleman's should. Among his\npapers were found two worn photographs; one of my mother, the only one\nshe had ever had taken, showing her in all the innocent beauty of her\nmaidenhood, the other of myself, taken in France, which, against my\nwill Grandmother had managed to convey to him. On the back of each of\nthem was written, in his hand-writing:--\"I have kissed this picture to\nshreds. They do not know. God knows.\"\n\nFor me, those are his Last Words.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV: CHRISTMAS NIGHT\n\n\nIn the slow weeks that followed my Grandmother's death I never came\nface to face with my own sorrow. My brain told me the sorrow was there,\nbut my will, reinforced by a numbness that possessed my spirit, forbade\nmy facing or feeling it. Never did I dare to summon the vision. It was\nmockery. It had been a mockery all through.\n\nBut the soul lives on, leaves death behind, is the same for ever: can\nwe not be together still, Robbie on the other side of death, Mary on\nthis? The notion came fearfully at first, then boldlier. Dare I try to\ndiscover? Does God permit us to love across the grave?--Even so, in my\ninnermost heart, I knew that a love which could bridge the gulf would\nstill be a love not quite completed, since not completed and perfected\nbetween us both together here on earth.--Could I then bring him back to\nlife? Instinct intimated and Prayer confirmed. On Christmas Night, now\ntwo or three weeks ahead, I would seek him just as before. Till then I\nmust possess my soul in emptiness.\n\nThe literal loneliness of the dead house helped to hush my spirit.\nThere were still some years of the lease of Number Eight to run; I\ndecided for the present to live on there, absolutely alone. With\nGrandmother's and Aunt Jael's income--all of which save a small\nlegacy to Aunt Martha from the former came to me--added to the little\nfortune that Great-Uncle John had left me, I was now a young woman of\nindependent means. How different was realization from anticipation.\nMoney could buy me everything, save the only thing in heaven or earth\nI wanted. Independence liberated me to roam throughout the world, and\nI remained desolate in this mournful forbidding house, the slave of my\nsick heart's memories and desires. Sister Briggs continued to come in\nfor the mornings, to help me with the housework and in the kitchen. I\nhad no plans, and, if Christmas failed me, no hopes. I was in a kind of\nspiritual stupor; I was but half alive. I had nothing to live for, and\nno hope to seek from death. Death, and then some other existence: but\nalways life--always a Me.\n\nThere was, however, at moments, a certain mystical freedom of spirit in\nthis cloistral utter loneliness. After about half-past one, when she\nhad washed up the dinner things, I knew that I was rid of Sister Briggs\nuntil the morrow, and I could fill the desolate house with myself. I\nwould wander from empty room to empty room, sit for half-an-hour here,\nhalf-an-hour there, pray, read, talk to myself, meditate, most often do\nnothing at all.\n\nAunt Jael's front parlour I still shunned, except when the blinds were\nup and in the broadest daylight, for Benamuckee's eyes could still\nmove, his face still leer. A heathen image, which men in savage forests\nhave worshipped and sacrificed to, can never be quite inanimate wood or\nstone. The Devil is alive in his likenesses on earth.\n\nThe sound of my own voice in the silent echoing rooms brought me time\nafter time to the verge of the old Expectation. I would shout, cry\naloud; till the mystery of self was almost discovered, and I ceased\npraying to God. He was too near.\n\nOne day the noise of shouts and supplications brought the next-door\nneighbour--that same clergyman who that far-off vinous day had been\ndrawn by Aunt Jael's agonies--knocking at the door.\n\n\"Er--excuse me. Is any one ill? I fancied I heard cries--\"\n\n\"Thank you. I am not ill. I am crying to God. Thank you all the same.\nGood-morning.\"\n\nThe healing power of the Church of England as by law established stops\nshort at saner souls than mine. He skedaddled with Pilate gesture down\nthe garden path. He had flushed when I used the word God.\n\nThus in prayer and madness and reading of the Word I panned out the\nweeks till Christmas. Once or twice I sought to recover the ancient\nRapture of the Lord's Presence. But at the approaching moment a voice\nalways intervened: The Great Happiness is coming back to you, but _in\nsome other way_. He that loveth not knoweth not God: for God is Love.\nNo man hath seen God at any time. But when perfect love for another\nhuman soul shall be perfected in you, then God, more rapturously than\nat Jordan, will enter your soul, and dwell within you for ever.\n\nWhat other way? It could only be Christmas.\n\n\nChristmas came, announced by the calendar but by no other outward sign,\nunless it was that Sister Briggs left before instead of after dinner.\nThe silence was stranger, more complete than ever. Through all the\nafternoon and evening I read, to prevent myself hoping. As I turned\nover pages of print, staring uncomprehendingly, one question absorbed\nall my being: I did not consciously think of it, for it was myself,\nall of myself, and the brain cannot think of the soul: _Can love then\nbridge the grave?_\n\nSuddenly, late in the afternoon, as dusk was turning to darkness, an\ninsane notion stormed my brain, which woke at once to feverish activity.\n\nI had only Aunt Martha's word for it. Her information came certainly\nfrom Uncle Simeon, Uncle Simeon was a liar, a cur, a cruel scoundrel.\nHe had invented that Robbie was dead, had lied to Aunt Martha, knowing\nthat she would convey the lie to me, knowing how it would afflict me.\nRobbie was alive, alive! Why had it not struck me before? My heart\nfainted with hope. I prayed God that he would make me unconscious till\nmidnight, for I did not know how I could live through those waiting\nhours.\n\nLive somehow I did. There was even time for Doubt to raise his\nunwearying head. He was dead after all: what reason had Uncle Simeon\nhad to lie, who could never have really divined what Robbie was to me?\nAnd if he were dead, Oh Christ, was it possible he could come to me?\n\nAfter supper I went upstairs to bed. There was a bright moon. I pulled\nthe curtains wide from the window that the room might be filled with\nmoonlight as the Torribridge room eleven years before.\n\nI sat up in bed and prayed God passionately to be merciful, to deal\nwith me lovingly: to send me Robbie, whether from this world or the\nnext.\n\nImperceptibly, in the luminous silence, the spiritual sluggishness of\nthe latter days disappeared; physical being fell from me like a cloak;\nmy mind became clear and radiant, my heart breathless with hope. Faith\npossessed me, and as I prayed, I waited.\n\nThere was a soft tread in the room: I knew whose, should know it at\nthe end of Eternity. There was no terror in me this time, no dreadful\nthought that it might be Uncle Simeon. Nor was there any soul's\nillusion, as in the hundred other times the need of my heart and the\npower of my imagination had created his presence. For the little white\nnightgowned figure standing at the door was there, _in plain reality_,\nas he had been at the Torribridge door eleven years before.\n\nAnd now, in this moment when the actual physical presence I had for\never prayed and longed for was achieved, the whole structure of my love\ncollapsed. A disappointment too sudden, too infinite to bear, filled my\nheart, from which the life seemed to be ebbing away. I understood the\ndifference between the child I had loved on the Torribridge night, and\nthe vision I had built with my love. One was dead and returned to earth\nfor a moment, the other had never lived except in my heart. I was a\nwoman, this was a little boy.\n\nAt the supernatural fact of his resurrection for this night I never\nstopped to marvel: only at my own folly in not having paused to think\nthat the physical shape of Robbie returning to earth must needs be\nthe physical shape in which he had left it. I was a woman, this was a\nlittle boy.\n\nThe vision had been real, but it was not Robbie. My heart still loved\nthe darling of its dreams, but my darling was not Robbie.\n\n\"I cannot come nearer, Mary,\" he said softly, and at the sound of his\nremembered voice my pulse beat faster, and life flowed back into my\nheart, and my child's love in its first simplicity, without the added\npassion of the years, came back to me again. \"I have returned for a\nmoment only. Do not grieve because God did not let me grow to be a man\non earth below. I loved you that happy once, and I love you still. Do\nnot think, dear, that because I had gone to Heaven, all the times you\nhave called for me since, and when I have come to you, have not been\ntrue. Each time you have called I have answered you in Heaven. Each\ntime my spirit has been with you. But God never meant me for this\nworld: He never meant me to be His this-world's love for you. Your\nhappiness is coming.\"\n\n\"When, Robbie? How?\"\n\n\"Very soon. You will see. You will be very happy.\"\n\n\"Come nearer, and kiss me Good-bye.\"\n\n\"No, Mary; you are a living woman, and I am a little boy whose life was\nlong ago. _He_ will kiss you.\"\n\nI watched the white form dissolve in the moonlight. I knew the room was\nempty. The crystal clearness of my heart was suddenly dimmed. The cloak\nof physical existence once more enveloped my soul. I was back in the\nworld.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV: WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID\n\n\nAt my Grandmother's funeral Lord Tawborough had said: \"Miss Traies,\nif ever you need any advice or service of any kind, write and let me\nknow, will you? It is the only kindness I would presume to ask.\" On the\nmorrow of Christmas Night I thought often--only--of these words. I did\nnot write. Something told me that I had no need to.\n\nThe whole of that wintry morrow I was alone in the cold house. Even for\nSister Briggs it was Boxing-Day: I had told her to take advantage of a\nday that even for oilmen (and Christians) should be a holiday, and to\nstay at home with her husband, as I could very well fend for myself.\n\nI waited. It was foolish, impossible, one more Maryish notion of magic,\nmadness, moonshine. It was possible, probable, inevitable, immediate.\n\nThe bell rang; with clamant heart and hurrying feet I sped to the door.\n\nThere were preliminary embarrassments and explanations. Trivial\nmatters, to which we both gave grateful over-measure of zeal and zest,\nfilled the awkwardest first moments, tided them capably over. \"The snow\non your coat: I must dry it\"--\"May the coachman come in and wait? The\nweather is bad\"--\"Certainly, there is the kitchen fire: for coat and\ncoachman too\"--\"Thank you\"--\"I will get you a cup of tea.\"\n\nWe did not look at each other. In the dining-room we continued to speak\nof trifles, pouncing with eager dexterity and emulous speed upon any\nsudden silence that showed its head. Covertly once or twice I dared to\nlook at the well-remembered face: fed swiftly on the manliness, the\ngentleness; the proud grey hair, the noble forehead, the charitable\neyes; the mouth. My heart beat tempestuously.\n\nThen God, in His Goodness, performed a miracle within me.\n\nThe mystical delight seized me. As on Jordan morning, I knew I should\nreach the Rapture. All love was one, and the Stranger was my Robbie.\nHis face was the face of my visions, the face I had called Robbie's,\nthat was not Robbie's. I knew that all the torrential affection which\nin dream and diary I had poured forth upon my vision, had been for my\nLove who stood before me now. The magical moment for which I had been\nborn was at last upon me--oh, hope too hard to bear--but he must speak\nthe word. He alone could complete the miracle, fulfil the hope, carry\nlove's banners to their ultimate victory in my heart.\n\n\nThe silences grew longer and more shameless. My heart throbbed, my\nbody trembled, my spirit was faint with expectation. He got up from\nhis chair and began pacing up and down the room, talking of something,\ntalking of nothing, moistening his parched lips, seeking through\nmoments of unbearable longing for the words that would not come.\n\nAt this moment of time, which is present in my heart more clearly\nthan any other of the memorable moments I have tried to describe in\nthis record of twenty-two years, I was sitting on the old horsehair\nChesterfield couch against the window; around me were the familiar\nobjects of this chiefly familiar room--Aunt Jael's traditional chair,\nand my Grandmother's; the faded rosewood piano, the ancient chiffoni\u00e8r,\nthe odour of my childhood, the taste of religion and many meals, the\nall-pervading gloom. God was everywhere around me, the God of my\nchildhood, the God of Beatings.\n\nHe stopped in his pacing up and down. I knew that his heart had\nstopped. His voice was husky, faint with passion and hope and fear.\n\n\"Miss Traies, may I ask you a question?\"\n\nI could not look up. My heart was near breaking point. I could not\nspeak. Perhaps I nodded.\n\n\"Will you--promise me this? That if the answer to the question is 'No,'\nyou will forgive me for having asked it, and like and respect me not\nless well than now?\"\n\nThis longer sentence came a little more easily: words gave courage to\neach other. The first question had been harder; though the hardest was\nyet to come.\n\n\"What-is-the-question?\" I still looked downwards. My voice was as husky\nas his, my heart as hungry.\n\n\"You know it.\"\n\n\"What-is-the-question?\" repeated obstinately, mechanically, and\nbecause--for one-millionth part--I was not sure. I knew the question,\nmy heart had answered it already; but I was a woman, and my mouth could\nnot speak for my heart till the man had achieved his task--found _his_\nmouth courage to speak for his heart. I knew, my heart knew; but my\nbrain waited for the serene absolute certainty which his words alone\ncould give. To complete the miracle this word was needed.\n\n\"What-is-the-question?\" I repeated mechanically.\n\nHis heart stopped again for the last effort, the ultimate moment\nof life. \"Will you--once--one time only--before you go abroad\nagain--before I am old--one single time--\" (how fondly each poor broken\nconciliatory qualification seemed to ease his task, break his amorous\nfall, make easier my way to the answer his soul sought)--\"_kiss me?_\"\n\nA spasm of spiritual joy went through me from head to foot. His\nsoul was mine, and mine was his: we were one soul, one double-soul\ninhabiting each body.\n\nThe winter was past, the rain was over and gone.\n\n\"Yes,\" I whispered. My voice was unsure, my eyes were filled with tears\nof happiness, my heart was fondling the two flawless words with which\nhe had transformed me.\n\nMore bravely, easily, surely: \"When?\"\n\n\"Soon.\"\n\n\"Very soon?\"\n\n\"Now.\"\n\nHe came swiftly to me, his arms were round me, our mouths were together\nin a tender infinite embrace. My soul and body were singing. Love,\ngarlanded with lilies, marched with God's paradisal banner of Perfect\nHappiness through all my heart.\n\nHe was kneeling by my side. His head was against my breast. I was\nkissing his hair, brushing my lips across his eyes.\n\n\nAfter a very long while I spoke. My voice fell strangely and softly\nupon my own ears. My new heart had fashioned me a new voice worthy to\ndo its bidding.\n\n\"Oh my dear, unhappiness is gone for ever. Now I am full of joy. You\nare near, you are completely in understanding. Look me in the eyes,\ndear; tell me it is not a dream.\"\n\n\"Mary, it is a dream. Today I have passed out of a land of unreality\ninto one of wonderful dreams. Now I am part of another, my soul is part\nof hers, and can never be torn away. Time cannot do it, and what is\nmore powerful than time?\"\n\n\"Eternity,\" I said.\n\nAnd I found as I uttered that word, that for the first time it held no\nterror.\n\n\n\n\n+-------------------------------------------------+\n|Transcriber's note:                              |\n|                                                 |\n|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.  |\n|                                                 |\n+-------------------------------------------------+","title":"Mary Lee","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":159268}